Baba Yaga Laid an Egg (Myths S.)

by Dubravka Ugrešic

  Breathe in and dive arrow-like, in your most graceful style

  Straight as a die through the narrow gate, wearing a blissful smile.

  ‘Who wrote that?’

  ‘I did. I’ve written quite a pile of worthless verses. And so as not to fall into the temptation of reciting any more, let’s clink our glasses and drink to a good night and a forthcoming bright, sunny morning!’ said Arnoš Kozeny in high spirits.

  And us? While life stumbles through thickets and briars, the tale is one of the constant high-fliers.

  6.

  The young man and the girl were sitting on a bench in the local park under a large chestnut tree whose luxuriant branches shrouded them like a green crown. The grass around them was moist and soft. It looked like a field prepared for an unusual ritual whose pagan signs no one was capable of deciphering. The local birds were changing their plumage and leaving their feathers everywhere. From a distance, it looked as though the young couple on the bench were protected by a feathery net, a large Indian ‘castle of dreams’. The birds hidden in the thick branches of the chestnut hushed their song to listen to the human chirruping.

  ‘You’re my pudding, my fruit pudding…’

  The girl listened breathlessly, but her gaze was directed somewhere towards her feet, where from time to time she scratched one foot with the other.

  ‘You’re my peach melba, my cream alpine, my blueberry anglaise, my floating island, my chocolate éclair, my choux chantilly, my kirsch bûchette… you’re my kirsch puff.’

  ‘What?’ the girl laughed delightedly.

  ‘You’re my croque-en-bouche, my brioche, my brioche au sucre, my almond cookie, my rum baba, my biscuit, my biscuit de savoie, my profiterole,’ whispered Mevlo into the girl’s ear, which was pink as orange rind.

  ‘Ah, Mellow…’ whispered the girl, trembling from the intoxicating shivers running through her round body.

  ‘Mevlo…’ Mevlo corrected her.

  ‘Mellow…’ repeated the girl, looking at Mevlo with wide- open eyes.

  ‘My name is Mevlo…’ repeated Mevlo, plunging into those two green pools.

  ‘Mellow…’ said the girl sweetly.

  ‘OK, mala moja, vidim da mi to néceš naučit…’* Mevlo sighed resignedly.

  Mevlo had taken a menu from the hotel confectioner’s and spent the whole night learning the names of cakes and sweets. That was the cleverest piece of advice that anyone could have given him. And it was advice given him by Arnoš Kozeny.

  ‘My dear young man,’ Arnoš Kozeny had said, when Mevlo complained in despair that he could not speak English and that he did not know how he could explain to the girl that he cared about her, ‘the fact that you don’t speak English is to your advantage. Because if you could, you might make a mistake. Whereas this way it’s quite immaterial what you say, chemical formulae or car parts. In any case in the first phase of being in love couples don’t talk. They chirrup…’

  ‘Like birds?’

  ‘Like birds, my boy…’ said Arnoš Kozeny, adding enigmatically: ‘Not only do they chirrup, but feathers fly in all directions.’

  ‘You’re my truffle, you’re my black forest gateau, you’re my gateau basque, my guadeloupe, my nian gao with one hundred fruits, my vassilopitta efkoli, my tremolat, my black devil, my gianduja ganache, my sachertorte, my caramel, my marzipan, my marquise, my mousse au chocolat, my passion fruit cream, my passion fruit, my fruit, my passion…’

  ‘Ah, Mellow…’

  ‘You’re my little strudel, my truffle, my fudge…’

  ‘I’m feeling mellow…’

  ‘Oh, Rosie, Ružice, my little rose, my rosebud…’

  The young man and the girl were so deeply engrossed in their twitterings of love that they did not notice that a slight breeze had got up and lifted the feathers from the grass around them. The branches of the old chestnut rustled and feathers flew through the air.

  * Goli Otok and St Grgur are islands off the Croatian coast where real or suspected Soviet sympathisers were imprisoned in the clamp-down following Yugoslavia’s break with Stalin in 1948.

  * ‘OK, little one, I see that you’re never going to learn.’

  Day Six, Epilogue

  Even on this Saturday morning, the receptionist Pavel Zuna did not neglect his exercises in the warm hotel pool. Particularly as he was assisted by Jana, a young student at the Physiotherapy training school, who, thanks to her daddy’s connections, was doing her month’s placement in the best possible place, the Grand Hotel.

  Under the command of the lovely Jana, Pavel Zuna was doing his exercises obediently. One-two-two-two-two-three… Zuna’s condition had markedly improved over the previous few days, and that nerve, taut as a bowstring until a little while ago, had relaxed. Immersed in warm water in the small pool, like an experienced hotel professional recognising a future professional, Pavel Zuna kept repeating:

  ‘Vy jeste velice talentovana, Jano, velice talentovana…’*

  On Saturday morning, at his usual time, Arnoš Kozeny was sitting sprawled in an armchair in the hotel lobby, sipping a cappuccino, puffing smoke from his cigar and running his eye over the newspaper. His attention was drawn to the news that two days earlier on the two farms near Norin, where the H5N1 virus had been identified, successful decontamination measures had been put in place and 70,000 chickens had been destroyed. The H5N1 virus had been found at the end of June in Germany and France, and the governments of those countries had taken the necessary measures. The spokesman of the Czech Veterinary Service, Josef Duben, had announced that a further 72,000 chickens had been destroyed, although there had been no trace on those farms of the H5N1 virus, which had so far killed some two hundred of the three hundred or so people infected, mostly Asians. Although there had not been a single European among the victims, and therefore no Czech, the Czech Veterinary Service had taken the decision to cull the additional 72,000 chickens as an exclusively preventative measure. The European Union compensation for the culled birds amounted to 1.5 million euros…

  With an expression of boredom on his face, Arnoš Kozeny folded his newspaper and thought about his first wife Jarmila, who lived in Norin, where she had a small house with a garden. They had not been in touch for more than a year, and this would be an opportunity to give her a call. ‘You’ll phone me when you hear the footsteps of the Grim Reaper. And you’ll come to me, you bastard, to be buried, because there won’t be anyone else to do it!’ Jarmila had been inclined to complain. Who knows, perhaps she was right, because after all she was never wrong. But it would be a while yet before the bell tolled, thought Arnoš Kozeny, particularly as he had noticed a middle- aged woman strolling into the hotel lobby leading three miniature poodles. Like an old warrior, Arnoš Kozeny automatically straightened his shoulders and drew in his stomach, pulled onto his face the mask reserved for such strategic situations – the mask of a moderately interested veteran in the field of sexual supply and demand – and drew on his cigar with relish.

  * * *

  That Saturday morning Mevludin was awoken by bright sunlight splashing into his room. His glance fell on Rosie’s shoulder, sprinkled with tiny freckles, flashing like a tiger’s eye. Rosie was lying on her side, sleeping peacefully as she sucked her thumb. Mevludin tenderly pulled her thumb out of her mouth. The girl wriggled and pursed her lips.

  ‘Lijepa si mi ko jaje od prepelice,’* whispered Mevludin, looking at the young woman in wonder. And then he got up and closed the curtains. He climbed back into bed, sighed deeply and plunged into her luxuriant coppercoloured hair…

  ‘Ah, Mellow…’ whispered the young woman sleepily.

  On Saturday morning the Grand Hotel was bathed in luxurious sunlight. From room number 313 came a hoarse male voice – which betrayed the fact that its owner had given his vocal chords a thorough soaking in alcohol the previous night – berating a person whose name was Marlena: ‘Marlena, yesli ty menya pokinesh, ya tebya ubyu, chestno, ty ne smeysya, ya tebya, suka, ubyu, ty tolko smotri, s
lyshysh,…’ †

  On Saturday morning Willowy, Linear and Dr Janek Topolanek were lying in a symmetrical arrangement on the large king-sized bed in the suite to which Topolanek, as a hotel employee, had permanent access. Little fruit flies were swarming round their heads. At one moment Dr Topolanek felt an irresistible urge to empty his bladder, but when he sat up to go to the bathroom, he was doubled up by a terrible pain in his lower back. The doctor cried out and fell back on the bed as though felled. Willowy and Linear woke up.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘My back hurts!’

  ‘Heksenschuss!’ said Linear calmly.

  ‘A witch’s blow!’ said Willowy.

  ‘What do we do now?’ wailed Topolanek, although he knew quite well what was coming.

  ‘Rest!’ said Linear, yawning.

  ‘Maybe a Voltaren injection,’ said Willowy, yawning as well.

  The girls wrapped themselves round Dr Topolanek and fell asleep again.

  Dr Topolanek did not have a chance to be indignant at their lack of care, because he was wondering obsessively about just one thing – how was he going to pee. And, when there was nothing else for it, he yelled:

  ‘I neeeeed a botttttle!’

  On Saturday morning, when David’s car left the famous spa town, the sky was blue, the grass green, the trees with their dense branches were casting sharp shadows, and between the shadows, as though jumping over invisible strings, large black crows were scampering. David was thinking over the whole tangle of unusual circumstances, about people’s lives, Asja’s, Pupa’s, Kukla’s and Beba’s, about the chance chain of events that had led him to Filip, Beba’s son, then a bit about his own life. They had all been drawn towards each other for a moment like magnets. He thought about Pupa. Lives could turn out one way or another, most of us live our lives shoddily, but at least then that famous metaphorical descent from the train ought somehow to be calculated in time and an effort made to ensure that the descent itself is not shoddy. We are not responsible for our arrival in the world, but perhaps we can be for our departure. At the last moment, Pupa had thrown the ball that had been placed in front of her (in which David too had played his part), and the little ball had first of all flown in the expected direction – towards her grandchildren, Zorana’s and Asja’s children – but then in the end it had rolled away where no one had anticipated, and, what was most important, where its fall would cause it to spin in a livelier and more useful way: towards Kukla, Beba and Wawa.

  What a young man! What a wonderful young man! thought Kukla, sitting comfortably sprawled on the back seat of the car. David had not only arranged everything, but now he was even driving them home, to Zagreb. Pupa was at this moment flying in her egg from Prague to Zagreb, and she would be met at the airport by a funeral service that would take her to the morgue. David had thought of that as well. And he had managed to organise Pupa’s funeral: that would take place in two days’ time. He had found the requisite addresses on the Internet and got everything done with a few phone calls. The money that Pupa had left in her will to Kukla and Beba had already been transferred to a newly opened joint account in both their names. Beba’s money, the sum she had won gambling, had also been transferred to the joint account, at Beba’s insistence. All the papers had been signed, not a single detail had been overlooked. A special account had also been opened with money intended exclusively for Wawa’s future education. All the rest had been left up to Beba and Kukla, although David had promised that he would be available to help at any time.

  Through the car window Kukla watched the clouds, white and weightless as beaten egg white. She let her thoughts run once again over the list of things she had to do. She had to buy a new computer and would have to start looking round schools. That would be a challenging task, to find out which were the best schools. And then, maybe Wawa would want to go to ballet school, and music school, and skating, oh, there were so many things! Kukla decided that she would sell her flat and put all the money in one place, and then she and Beba could talk everything over, how, what and when. Because who knows how much longer she would be on hand for Wawa. If she had inherited lucky genes, and it seemed as though she had, she would be in this world for a while yet, absorbed in a new, wonderful and unique task – Wawa! She would be Wawa’s auntie, Wawa’s auntie Kukla. But if she thought about it all, perhaps it wasn’t so important that she and Beba should plan things in advance. Perhaps they ought to instill something different into Wawa, some learning that would make her wise, something that no school in the world could give her.

  Beba too was composing a list in her head. First of all she would have to take herself in hand and put her neglected body in motion. She would need her body because of – Wawa. There, things were suddenly crystal clear. She would have to renew her driving licence, she’d neglected that as well, and buy a new car. Otherwise, who would drive Wawa to kindergarten, to school, to ballet, if she wanted, and music school, if she wanted, and to foreign language classes, if she wanted that as well? Perhaps she, Beba, would be able to enrol in a Chinese class? Admittedly Wawa did not know a word of Chinese, but what if she wanted one day to see her Chinese homeland? Then she, Beba, would have to accompany her, and knowing Chinese would come in handy. As soon as they got back, she would sell her small flat, put all the money in one heap, and talk things over with Kukla. They’d sit down and talk it through. They’d certainly need to buy a shared house, a wonderful house, with a large garden with fruit trees in it. And one big walnut tree, for shade. That would be Pupa’s tree, in her memory; after all, it was she, the old witch, who had stirred this all up. And they’d plant a raspberry patch, so that she could make Wawa raspberry jam. There’d be a little kennel in the garden for a dog, for a rabbit, a tortoise, a hedgehog, whatever Wawa wanted. And a little studio in the garden, so that Wawa and her future friends could learn to draw, and perhaps, who knows, she herself would return to the dreams of her youth and finally start painting real pictures. In her mind Beba touched wood: just let her stay well, and let her see Wawa start secondary school. Wawa would study, they would have to help her choose the best university. But on the other hand, when she came to think of it, she had a degree and it had never done her much good. Perhaps Wawa ought to learn other, more important things. Life was an endless garden filled with hidden Easter eggs. Some people collected basketfuls, others did not find a single one. Perhaps that was what they ought to teach Wawa: how to be a hunter, a hunter of wonders. Not to miss anything, to enjoy every second, for life is the only thing we are given free of charge. Beba suddenly felt immense gratitude to her son. She felt that all those drawers in her that she had kept closed for years were opening and she was now breathing freely. At this moment nothing else mattered, all that mattered was this enchanting creature. Ah, those little cheeks, those thick, calm eyelashes, those eyebrows like wings and that breath, oh God, that sweet child’s breath…

  ‘Don’t you think she looks a bit like Filip?’ whispered Beba.

  ‘Of course, of course she does…’ said Kukla, who had never seen Filip, not even in a photograph.

  * * *

  Through the car window Kukla looked at the landscapes that were slowly moving past them. The sky was blue, the grass green, the trees with their dense branches were casting sharp shadows, and between the shadows, as though jumping over invisible strings, large black crows were scampering. And the clouds, the clouds were gushing over the sky like the foam of beaten egg whites.

  Wawa was curled up inside Pupa’s boot with her puppy in her arms, sleeping. Out of the boot poked her little hand, in which she was firmly clutching Mevlo’s wooden ladle. And then, just as though she could feel Beba and Kukla’s thoughts swarming over her, she wriggled, scratched her little nose with her free hand and – went back to sleep. Beba and Kukla, each for herself, stroked the side of the fur boot protectively and daydreamed…

  What about us? Our work is done, a bitter-sweet feat, but a treat-filled one: roast chickens fell out of the blue, drums
ticks for us and bones for you! We were there to drink wine fresh from the vine: with Pupa from a mug, with Kukla from a jug, with Beba from a flask – a toast to our task. We must leave them here and wish them good cheer! If you want any more, don’t knock at our door!

  * ‘You are very talented, Jana, very talented…’

  * ‘You’re as lovely as a quail’s egg.’

  † ‘Marlena, if you leave me, I’ll kill you, honestly, don’t laugh, I’ll kill you, you bitch, just watch me, I’m telling you…’

  PART THREE

  If You Know Too Much, You Grow Old Too Soon

  Slavic Folklore Studies

  Joensuu Yliopisto, University of Joensuu

  PO Box 111

  FI-80101 Joensuu

  Finland

  Dear Editor,

  I must admit how surprised I was to get your letter. I do not know how you came to choose me out of all the excellent scholars in Folklore Studies. I only joined this university recently and haven’t yet gained the sort of reputation here or in international academic circles for my name to mean anything to you. Of course I am pleased that you turned to me, but I must warn you before we go any further that, although I do indeed specialise in Slavic folklore, myths and ritual traditions, this does not make me an expert on your topic by any means. Secondly, I am under a good deal of pressure trying to finish a book about ‘Bulgarian popular beliefs related to childbirth’, and unfortunately I won’t be able to give as much time as I would like to answering your questions. Be this as it may, flattered by your trust in my ability, as also by a wish to maintain this contact (which, who knows, may be more than coincidence!), I have read the manuscript you sent me with pleasure. I confess that the brevity of the text contributed not a little to my enjoyment.