Mr Bolshakov himself was an implant from the Soviet bloc, and now that the Soviet tanks were gone and we were all proud Czechs, we didn’t like him much anyway. But, somehow, he served as one of the commissioners for the oral exams of the maturia, the final exam at the end of high school to get into university.
Mr Bolshakov had a Czech wife and a nice house and he was untouchable. He continued things in the old way – bribes, cash and gold preferably – he didn’t care much for promises or favouritism, he just wanted to get it in the real and wrap it up in his yellowing newspaper from the 1980s when this was still his country, and stuff it in his old army boots.
I knew cause I broke in and had a little peek for myself. I was curious about that top-dog Ruský, what can I say. I found where he kept those old army boots (in the closet, below his trousers and shirts, predictable dumb-ass), I pulled out his stash, but then he came home unexpectedly, had to think quick, so I slid myself under the bed.
I was pressed like a chicken breast, between the floor and the low metal springs, waiting for him to leave, except that he kept muttering around his bedroom, then he sat on the edge of the bed, and the springs almost collapsed my gut, and whether it was the powers above having a go at me or just his afternoon routine, Mr Bolshakov started rubbing himself off, emitting ointments of moans, all the while the springs pushing in and out of my gut, till I thought I’d wet myself or shit myself or split my spleen. But he finished off and stood up and finally left the room.
I slid out of that space, then felt it coming, so I pulled the bed cover down and vomited onto the sheet, then closed the comforter over that spot, ha ha.
Then I went back to those army boots and reached into my pocket and got out the matches.
*
Before the police or the school got whiff of it, I ran back to our building and pulled Janka into the bathroom with me and locked the door. She knew I’d done something irreversible. I said hush for a minute. We were squeezed in against the toilet and we waited in silence, to hear if there were any footsteps in the hallway. There weren’t any, so I unzipped my jeans and plunged my hand in and fished about in my cunt and pulled it out for show. Ta-da, I showed Jana the tight wad of money wrapped in plastic.
Janka said, “He’s going to kill you!” I said, “No one can kill me, I’m already an angel!” Then I kissed her. Janka said, “Where are we gonna hide this?” I said, “Where else?” and stuffed that money-roll back into my cunt.
*
Never never never, not under no circumstance, never be ashamed of yourself, Janka!
*
It was just one of those days when too many things happened at the same time. Mr Bolshakov found himself alone with me after class, pinned me to the wall and pulled a fork out of his pocket, trying to whisper with his onion-breath that he’d scrape my little cunt out. “Whoever said it was little,” I huffed back. “I got a fatty, Mr Bolshakov!” He pinched his eyebrows, what a dullard, so I grabbed the fork out of his hand, stuffed it in my jeans, gave him my signature two-finger salute, then got the hell out of there!
Yeah, I was running, thinking of my mamka actually, that she might even be a little delighted to have an extra fork in the kitchen, cause she was always complaining how the neighbours were stealing our silverware. But when I got home, Mamka was not in the best of moods, her fingernails were already itching at her woollen skirt. Then she saw me and her mouth wreaked of loathing. I pulled out the fork and said, “Here, Mamka, a present for you.” She grabbed the fork out of my hand and started screaming about how the police had come around for me again, and in the name of mercy couldn’t I stop with my shit and be less defunct. I said, “Listen, Mamka, I am a fallen angel.” She started chasing me with the fork, and I thought oh fuck. I ducked and jumped, and still managed to flip her off (cause, come on), then she screamed “you malá narcis!” and then I screamed back “I THOUGHT I WAS THE LOVE OF YOUR LIFE!” and then I could hear the neighbours coming out into the hallway to see what was up. I was running around our small apartment, bouncing from corner to corner, cause Mamka had a fork like a machete, and she was serious. I reached beneath the sofa to where I knew Mamka kept her vodka bottle, then flipped open the closet and grabbed her prized fox-fur coat and she howled, “You put that down, you put that down,” but I sprinted to the door, and down the stairs and I was gone.
Mamka must have run to the window just then. She never had good aim, in all the years I’d known her, but I was running in one direction, past the neighbours’ faces like a lie, crunching over the snow, cold slapping at my cheeks, when I heard the shriek, it could only belong to one person – my mother. Before I could turn around, I felt it, like some cold metal beast clenched its claws into my shoulder. It knocked me to my knees and my face slumped into the snow. I was pushing myself back up, saying to myself, get up, Zorka, get up. I reached my hand around to my shoulder and felt it there, the fork, stuck deep inside my flesh. I wriggled it, and almost vomited straight up. Come on, Zorka! I held my breath, grabbed that fork, and pulled that motherfucker out. It spat a perfect arc of blood into the snow. My shoulder felt like I just pulled a grown wing outta my body. Holy shit. Holy shit, holy shit. I picked up Mamka’s fox-fur coat and got on running.
After that, well, I only came back once – some days later – and it was night-time. I doused that fur coat with the whole bottle of vodka; then I left it to burn in the hallway, fuck and adieu.
*
Say hi to the boys, the river and the forest.
*
Then it struck me like an alarm. What have I done? I mean about Jana, you know. Years have a way of speeding up at a certain point. I thought either I’m gonna kill Mamka or Mamka’s gonna kill me. Guess that’s when I started asking for angels. You wouldn’t understand.
Anyways I had the dream. Never saw children that had a lethal buzz to them like that – except for Jana maybe, ha. Lucifer’s kiddies – my kind of crowd. So, yeah, I made a wish. That’s what dreams are for.
And maybe it was selfish. But they don’t call me the Malá Narcis for nothing!
The short of it was I was scared I’d never outgrow my misgivings. I’m all alone and I’m a piece of shit, I kept repeating. I was asking for help.
Woke up to the smell of apples and oranges.
It’s a secret
0_hotgirlAmy_0: Don’t tell anyone.
Dominxxika_N39: I will not gossip or speak of it, this I am promise! Please tell me . . .
0_hotgirlAmy_0: *smile
0_hotgirlAmy_0: I’m gonna whisper it to u . . .
Dominxxika_N39: My ear is ready for ur whisper.
0_hotgirlAmy_0: I ...
0_hotgirlAmy_0: love
0_hotgirlAmy_0: you, Dominika.
Dominxxika_N39: O Amy.
Dominxxika_N39: O my Amy!
Dominxxika_N39: O my beauty, my angel, my sexy girl!
Dominxxika_N39: I love u so great I have not find words to say, if I say it, I have to say it million times, like million rosebuds, like million leaf tips, like million gold reflections in the quiet field, I love you Amy I love you!
0_hotgirlAmy_0: *mega smile
Dominxxika_N39: I want u, sexy Amy.
0_hotgirlAmy_0: Me too . . . I want to look into ur blue eyes. And touch ur dark hair. And I want to . . . do so many things . . . ! All day long, I don’t care, like at all at all at all. I don’t even care. I just wanna go home and go online and be with you.
Dominxxika_N39: When I alone and my husband double-lock door, so I no go out, I put one arm around other and I feel u there, inside my embrace.
0_hotgirlAmy_0: I am I am I am!
Dominxxika_N39: I get so sad, because I am locked inside and cannot see u and cannot be with you. I want to feel u for real and be with you for real.
0_hotgirlAmy_0: We can be, we can! Archangel Michael is on our side. He’s guiding me to u every day. And I even looked on the map. And like if I fly into Prague, we can meet up. From Vaclav Havel Airport I can take the 119 bus t
o Nadrazi Veleslavin, then take the A subway 5 stops and get off at Staromestska, it’s near the old Jewish cemetery on the map. Will u meet me there? No one will see us. Will u?
Dominxxika_N39: Yes! Yes yes! But how I get out? U don’t understand, Amy. Every night I dream u are outside door. I can hear u and I can feel u on other side of door, but it is lock and I cannot get out and you cannot get in. When I awake, I want to tear down wall with my nails. But my sexy Amy, how can I explain to u how I live? My husband put iron bars on window because he is suspicious. And door frame he make of iron too. It is impossible. Even if I put fire to door, it is only I who burn inside.
0_hotgirlAmy_0: Don’t do that!
0_hotgirlAmy_0: Archangel Michael will help us! I’m sure he will!
Fight the dyke
There was a good half-year when Zorka was not aggressive or hostile, just a bit distant and pensive. She was doing her homework, not walking out of school, not flipping off the hall monitors, not yelling back and forth at her mother, not skipping dinner to sit in the forest.
But then Jared brushed against her in the hallway, as she was getting her history book out of her locker, and she snapped around, grabbed his hand, and slammed it in her locker door. It happened so quickly that the boy couldn’t even yell out, he just stood there with a blurry face, holding his slammed hand at his wrist, with his mouth gaping silent. Then he started shaking his hand out and shrieking, “You fucking psycho!!” Jared pushed Zorka against the lockers and all the kids backed up and a couple started chanting “fight the dyke, fight the dyke”, then a teacher came out and the students scattered. Jared showed the teacher his hand, already white and throbbing, with the red indent of where it was slammed. “She broke my hand!” he exclaimed in cramped voice.
*
Jared’s hand was indeed broken, the principal updated Zorka and her mother, who sat in his office with Gejza translating and Tammie with her eyebrows scrunched and high with concern.
The principal was a tall, round-faced man with a blue-toned suit. He proceeded in a measured tone, asking Zorka to explain what had happened.
Zorka was sitting with her chin down, looking at the desk legs.
“He touch me,” Zorka muttered.
“Touched you . . . Do you mean, in the hallway, Zorka, just then?”
“Yeah.”
“Did he . . . go under your clothes?”
“No,” Zorka said.
“Did he use his hands?”
“No.”
“Well, it seems to me that what you are describing is a classmate who happened to bump into you in the hallway, is that correct?”
Zorka looked up at the principal.
“Not correct,” she said. “He touch me.”
Finally, Marja caught up with what was being discussed and she shrieked out, “Narcis!” Then Zorka looked back and yelled something in Czech, then Gejza got between them and the two women were hushed.
“I’m sorry, Zorka,” the principal continued, “I know it’s unpleasant sometimes when someone bumps into us, but if we were to react violently to every person in life that accidentally—”
“Not accident!” Zorka said.
Marja yelled something at Zorka and Gejza repeated it in a hushed voice and Tammie bit her nail. The principal took a breath and leaned back on his swivel chair. He looked directly at Gejza.
“Perhaps you can translate this for Zorka and her mother. It is very important. Violence, of any kind, is not tolerated in America, not to mention in a public high school where children come to learn in a safe environment.”
Gejza nodded. Tammie added, “I’m so sorry for this.”
“She can’t just behave the way they do in . . . the Czech Republic,” the principal pronounced the country with caution, wondering if he was saying it alright.
“Well, this is not the way we act—” Gejza was trying to explain when the principal cut him off with his hand. Then nodded.
“I hope you understand that I’m responsible for the safety of every student who goes to this public school.”
*
At home, they cut off Zorka’s cable, then they just took away the TV.
*
. . . the boys, the river and the forest . . .
*
Tammie talked to the principal and Jared’s parents on Zorka’s behalf, and the police were left out of it. Zorka got a month of detention and the family paid for the boy’s medical bills.
*
In detention, Zorka spent the first couple of days staring at Deandra, sitting diagonally in front of her, wearing loose tracksuit bottoms, white K-Swiss sneakers, and an oversized white shirt that had a blue and red “Tommy Girl” written on it. Next to her was Deandra’s girl, Tiff, taller, small-waisted, wearing tight dark jeans with a thick belt, leaving a gap at the back where her red shirt didn’t quite tuck into her jeans.
Zorka kept staring until, finally, Deandra turned around and said, “What’s the matter. You ain’t never seen a black person before?”
“Yes I have,” Zorka replied.
“So what’s your problem?”
“You look like rapper Missy Elliott.”
“You kiddin me?”
“No, I know you are not. I say you look like.”
“Hell, nah, yo Tiff, check out this Spice Girl over here calling me Missy cause she can’t tell no difference between us black folk!”
Tiff leaned over and turned towards Zorka.
“You think she look like Beyoncé?” Deandra said turning her thumb to Tiff.
“No,” Zorka said.
“Well, we think yo ass look like a Russian Spice Girl.”
“I am not Russian.”
“Shh,” the detention monitor said and all three girls turned to face forwards.
The detention monitor walked up to the three girls and nodded at each one. They all lowered their heads back to their homework and began to write. As the monitor walked back to the front of the class, Deandra snuck her eyes back over to Zorka and Zorka slid her eyes down at Deandra.
*
When the detention bell rang, Zorka walked straight up in front of Deandra and Tiff and stood at their desks.
“So . . . I can hang with you now?”
Deandra looked up at Zorka, then over at Tiff, then burst out laughing.
“Tiff, am I going crazy? Am I losing it, or is this Spice Girl over here be askin us if she can hang with us?”
“Dee, I think that’s really what she be askin tho.”
Deandra looked Zorka up and down.
“Okay, Spicey, tell me, why you wanna hang with us?”
Zorka thought about it. Then she shrugged.
“Cause you are like – revolution,” she said.
*
It’s true that most people referred to Zorka as “Carrie” or “Psycho”, but both Deandra and Tiff had their share of names as well. Tiff had a soft-spoken lisp and acne scars on her cheeks, and in middle school her grandma made her carry around the Bible and it became a game to try and make Tiff use God’s name in vain or say a cuss word. To this day, Tiff never used a cuss word, even if Dee threw them around as easily as she threw her fists around whenever anyone had a problem with the fact that Tiff was “her girl”.
*
. . . there’s fire . . . in the windows . . .
*
Big pieces, little pieces –
*
“We can’t go to my house. But Tiff live with her granny. You can come over. But we gotta take the bus,” Deandra said.
The three girls took the 14 bus Southridge bound and got off at Cesar Chavez Drive and walked the rest of the way.
“Otherwise it’s two buses,” Tiff explained, “and that’d take over an hour.”
Deandra added that, once they got a car, they could be there in fifteen to twenty minutes tops.
Cesar Chavez Drive was definitely in the Latino neighbourhood, Zorka observed. Across the street from the bus stop was a Taqueria Los Comales and a Church-type c
entre, tan stone with two-pronged towers and, built into the exterior, two golden tubes with a golden-shaped flame at the top, between which the letters spelled out La Luz Del Mundo, the Light of the World.
They walked past 20th, 21st, 22nd . . . up until West Lapham Street to a long five-storey apartment building. The exterior was lined with grainy cement between each floor. All the sliding windows on all the floors were identical, in between each window a bit of brown-red wall. The yard was punctuated with a series of oblong-trimmed shrubs, which looked as if they were embarrassed by the building, hunching into their own twigs.
Inside, the floor was thin, and somewhat rubbery, spotted with flecks of brown, and the matching maroon and brown carpet led to the elevator. They went up to the fifth floor, took a left, and went to the last door near the window facing the building opposite.
“My granny’s still at work. So no one’s home,” Tiff said, unlocking the door.
*
Zorka walked around the living room and picked up a photo of a young man, about sixteen, wearing a track uniform, shoulders wide, the muscles pushing out of his smooth dark skin, his face even, with eyes looking far, far out.
“He’s super fine,” Zorka said.
“That’s Ray-Ray,” Deandra said. “He dead.”
“Shit.” Zorka put the photo down. “Total shame!”
“For real,” Deandra continued. “He was super fine.”
“He got shot?” Zorka asked.
“Girl, you need to update yourself on some shit, seriously. You killing me with this racist feedback.”
“What?”
“Not all dead brothers be dead cause they got shot.”
“Oh ok,” Zorka replied. “I understand.”
“Ray-Ray was a star athlete and good grades, academic. He was gonna go to Harvard or some shit like that, plus he was fly as fuck. All the girls be chasing Ray-Ray . . . like even the white girls don’t know what to do with theyselves when Ray-Ray come around . . .”
Tiff came back in with a two-litre bottle of Sprite and three glasses, and Deandra got quiet. Tiff stopped and looked at Deandra. These girls could feel each other’s emotions like drops in the same river.
Virtuoso Page 10