translated by Magdalena Mullek
This translation first appeared in Books from Slovakia 2019.
Reprinted with permission of LIC.
I’m asleep.
My cell phone rings.
“Hello?”
“It’s Kavec. What are you doing?”
“Writing a novel.”
“Come pick up trash with us. Someone made a mess by the dam again.”
We’re picking up trash.
I don’t care about the environment, I pick up trash out of spite; the majority isn’t picking up, I am.
My cell phone rings.
It’s a ministry official:
“What are you writing these days?”
“A short story.”
“Could you turn it into an experimental novella? You’d get a grant.”
“Me, a nobody?”
“We need you. With your strange writing you are creating the impression that we have freedom in our country, and with our grant we are creating the impression that the ministry supports freedom.”
“But my short story, it’s more like an aphorism. I don’t have time for anything longer.”
“What’s keeping you busy?”
“Same as everyone else,” I say and pick up a wad of paper from the weeds. It‘s a grimy magazine with a picture of a Mafioso by Danglár. Above a potbellied asshole with a gun there is a blood-red inscription: DON’T PIG OUT!
I take it personally.
Why shouldn’t I pig out?
Danglár should leave me alone, I rage in my mind.
Headlines in other filthy newspapers announce a war with Hungary. The news fills many Slovaks with pride. Those whom it fills with fear and loathing keep their mouths shut, so there will be war.
I end the phone call:
“Accepting a grant would be against my principles.”
“That’s a good one!” The official laughs when he hears the word principles.
And Kavec barks out:
“A short story? An aphorism? You were telling me about a novel!”
“So? A good aphorism is better than a bad novel.”
“That’s because you hate novelists! And you hate love! And women! You hate everything!”
Kavec seemed to be out in left field and completely off-topic, but the truth is, I do prefer meeting with literary critics rather than women.
Not long ago, a critic, a certain professor, came to meet with me, and he set a collection of poems on the table. That’s when I noticed that his briefcase was teeming with foot-long slimy grayish-black slugs. It looked like a fight in slow motion.
“My God, what’s that?”
The critic opened the collection of poems and said:
“This one writes Catholic poetry, but behind his wife’s back he’s getting it on with a certain young lady, pardon my language. And people like that should preach to us about God?”
Later that night, when we were parting, the critic said:
I like dogs more than snails. But a dog wouldn’t fit in my briefcase.”