translated by Magdalena Mullek

This translation first appeared in Books from Slovakia 2018.

Reprinted with permission of LIC.

When I was about five years old, I spent the summer at Grandpa’s. On my father’s side. He lived in Bodovka. He let me stay with him because my parents had to go somewhere. And also because he lived “alone like an amputated finger” (sic!) in a large house outside the village and was bored.

The first few days were a lot of fun. We went fishing, spent hours drinking tea on the veranda, went out for beer, and cut the grass. And we fed the rabbits. Or we watched the birds, those epicurean beasties that lived in a birdhouse made from a crate with the large inscription, GRAND VINS DE ROUSILLON.

Then one afternoon Grandpa took a nap, and there was no way to wake him. I tried everything I could think of. I poked him, jabbed him, smothered him with a pillow, poured water on him, all to no avail. As a last ditch effort I set two alarm clocks and let them go off right by his ears. No effect.

So I let him sleep until the evening.

Around five I got a bit anxious. I knew where he kept his money — in a jar in the cupboard, with the spare keys and late Grandma’s fake teeth — so I went to the store. Grandpa usually went around this time. They knew me at the store. I bought beer and chocolate. Beer for him, chocolate for me.

The next day Grandpa kept sleeping.

I was afraid he might die of thirst — I had seen a movie on TV about a desert, which showed this quite graphically — so I opened a bottle of beer. Grandpa was lying on his back, and the beer went into his mouth pretty easily. Some of it dribbled down his chin, and a tiny bit went down the back of his neck, but all and all, I did OK.

When he hadn’t woken up by the afternoon, I tried to feed him. I found a piece of old bread in the kitchen, spread some jam on it, and brought it to his bed. I broke off a piece and pushed it between his teeth. It was a good idea, but Grandpa did not want to swallow. When his mouth was full, I gave up. Even so, half his face was smeared with jam.

No matter, I told myself, no one has died of hunger yet, not even in the movie about the desert. At least I hadn’t heard of such a thing.

In the evening the neighbor, Mr. Jedenástik, came to visit. I told him that Grandpa was having trouble with his voice. And that he was very sick, and couldn’t get out of bed. I didn’t want to tell him that he had been asleep for days. That would have been embarrassing!

I left Mr. Jedenástik sitting on the veranda, and took messages to Grandpa. Then I turned around, and on my way back I invented his answers. Perhaps Mr. Jedenástik found it odd, but he didn’t say anything. All he cared about was that I poured him a drink, and he was in no hurry to leave. I had seen Grandpa do the same; the vodka was hidden in the cupboard. The conversation went something like this:

“Who knows if there will be any tomatoes this year.”

“Who knows, who knows…”

“The peppers aren’t doing so well either.”

“No, not well at all.”

“Not to mention the cucumbers.”

“Yup. Yup.”

And other such drivel.

Then he left.

Whenever I got bored, I told Grandpa stories. Usually I muddled several into one, so in the end the princess rejected the brave knight and lived happily ever after with a twelve-or-however-many-headed dragon. Or something like that. As I found out later, things often turn out that way in real life. The virtuous knights in shiny armor turn into old farts in bedroom slippers, which drives the women to despair, and they run away with a beast that keeps life interesting. Anyway, the important thing was that in my stories everyone lived happily ever after. I made sure of that, because that’s how it’s supposed to be, right?

That’s how it’s always supposed to be.

And Grandpa was still asleep.

On the fourth day my parents arrived. With Nana. As I looked out the window I saw their orange Dacia pull into the front yard. I was very glad, because I had really started to miss company. In my excitement I threw myself into their arms.

“Where’s Grandpa?”

“Oh, he’s in bed. Sleeping.”

“Sleeping?”

“Yeah. For several days now.”

“How come?”

“I don’t know. He must be tired.”

They ran into the house.

“Jesus Christ!” Nana shouted. She only mentioned Jesus when things were serious.

Then she spent a long time talking to my parents.