The rains pass and the world is now hot and inviting, but Grandma stops going to the store every day and Grandpa watches TV instead of going to the pub. Often, I catch him looking at the apartment section in the newspaper, circling places in Prague. He hides the paper when I come near and he won’t talk. I don’t want to think about moving from this house, this home. Though I grew up in Prague, Středa has always been a sanctuary, a place where my mother often smiled, taking me for hour-long walks, a place where my father spoke more, and never about work or politics, a place where no cars pass by at night and one can seek perfect darkness in the fields, away from street lamps and golden bulbs seeping from windows.
It is home, but we are no longer welcome. When my father the hero was lost, my father the nation’s villain came to light. Those morning Elvis songs, mixed with his coffee slurps and the shuffling of newspapers (The imperialists are killing the poor with drugs, he would scoff), hum in my ears all night and into the morning, forbidding sleep.
Deep Surveillance
THE DISTANCES LIFE TRAVELS to find other life.
From the first prokaryote battling the wild seas of prehistoric Earth to hominids acquiring their first crude tools; from Neanderthals scratching the likeness of their world onto cave walls with red and yellow ochre to the first Russian satellite (weight: eighty-three kilograms) orbiting around Terra and pulsing its exhilarating beeps to Earth’s radios; from the first Soviet phantom spacemen sent by the motherland to die nameless to the first men pinning flags to extraterrestrial surfaces (yes, these glowing rocks now belong to us); from the Hubble telescope photographing the first worlds beyond our own (could they ever be ours?) to the ecstasy of finding life’s greatest bacteria sustainer, H2O, on the surfaces of planets mercilessly teasing our imaginations; and finally to the first man-made Voyager exiting the cozy luxuries of our very own solar system. Life will always travel to find other life.
And there was me. Jakub Procházka, sole crew member of shuttle JanHus1, who could sweep these discoveries off the table as if they were merely the insignificant crumbs of a bygone era.
It had been six days and eighteen hours since I watched the creature flee. I found comfort in its mind visits, despite their invasiveness—the constant ache around my temples preserved my belief that I would see it again.
Earth was now a shining point deep within the heavens, a home reduced to a unit of punctuation. Once a day, I focused my telescope to remind myself of the blues and whites awaiting me upon my return, a planet willing to sustain me and those I knew. In comparison to these magnifications of my planet, Venus seemed quite dull and every bit as hostile as its never-ending thunderstorms and volcanic explosions, its surface a deceptively still malt of sand and rock. The planet was pale and static when viewed through the thick haze of cloud Chopra, still two weeks away and thus appearing motionless, though daily readings offered proof that the cloud was continuing to collapse on itself.
Every day now, my progress toward the cloud took over the news cycle, and the public relations frenzy over my mission was at its peak. The New York Times ran a six-page profile detailing the actions of my father, the regime’s hero, the betrayer of the people. It was a fine essay on the history of the country (I wondered whether the Times had ever given my country the time of day before) combined with irrelevant and condescending comments on my life as a rags-to-riches boy from a small country with a big country’s moxie. Media outlets all over the world took up the task to describe me to their respective populations as if they were describing a friend. A Norwegian starlet, touring Hollywood for a new major film, declared me her number one celebrity crush. My government PR team—most of whom I had never met, and who looked like they’d just obtained their real estate license—toured Europe to speak about my bravery, the importance of keeping Space exploration alive, and my preference regarding boxers versus briefs. Central forwarded emails from entertainment publicists in bulk, offering to represent me, to sell my life story rights to film producers, biographers, and the occasional desperate novelist.
It wasn’t really so long ago that people had spit on my family’s gate. Now they wanted to exchange money for what that name represented, perhaps offer the role of my father to an up-and-coming serious character actor looking to break into the major awards scene after portraying a series of multilayered, morally ambiguous white men in independent films.
Every day I continued to receive emails from Petr outlining the detailed schedule of tasks to complete before reaching my target. Filter testing, sensor cleaning, a more rigid exercise program to prepare me for possible emergency protocols, video chat events to satisfy the sense of ownership and pride of the taxpayers. I performed these tasks dutifully but without much excitement. All I could think about was the creature, its weight, its voice defying sound waves; or Lenka, Central’s inability to find her, the silence, my resentment building up against her despite my best efforts. The pursuit of Chopra seemed ill-timed, perhaps even no longer worth the time and currency in the face of terrestrial intelligent life. But Chopra was ahead nevertheless, visible and life-altering to Earthlings, while the creature had vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and these mild headaches, the lingering proof of its presence, were beginning to feel self-inflicted. Both Lenka and the creature had abandoned me to my mission. My flesh attended to the menial tasks only with dry professionalism, while my mind wandered everywhere, anywhere, once manic and once passive, a buzzing fly making its way around a bedroom, torn between the freedom promised by sunlight seeping through a window and the endless buffet of crumbs scattered in dark corners.
Six days and eighteen hours after the creature’s disappearance, when I settled into my lounge chair to check email before sleeping off two hours of television interviews, I found an email forwarded by Petr from the ministry of interior. The attachment was a text file titled Lenka P. The text of the email:
A gift from Senator Tůma. State security agent has eyes on Lenka 4 u.
P.
I opened the document.
The subject was first spotted while leaving the city hall building in Plzeň. In comparison to provided photograph #3, contrasts are immediately striking—hair cut short and dyed blood-orange red, some weight loss noted around cheekbones. Subject walked with confidence and a cell phone held to her ear. Phone records show the particular phone call was to her mother. Other calls have been made to a female friend in Prague and a male acquaintance in Plzeň. The male acquaintance will be followed up on shortly for possible involvement. The subject drove to a Hodovna supermarket, where she purchased half a kilo of lean ham, Camembert, three whole wheat rolls, two bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon, and a Bounty bar. It appears that the subject shops for only one meal at a time. The subject’s evening activities were limited to watching reruns of The Simpsons, consumption of purchased goods, and writing in a notebook the agent has not yet been able to access. It is of note that the subject consumed an entire bottle of red wine and smoked seven Marlboro menthol cigarettes before going to sleep. As the agent was asked for light detail, he abstained from observing the subject’s bedroom activities, and did not enter the apartment. A view through the window revealed a neatly arranged living room with little furniture, no pictures or wall art, no books, a television placed upon a cheap table. The leather couch seems to be the only substantial piece of furniture in the house, suggesting the subject is not considering a permanent stay. Surveillance will resume…
I closed the email. Male acquaintance. Possible involvement. Perhaps the surveillance was a terrible idea—the guilt was not worth the minimal relief it provided. But the guilt of spying on Lenka did not overpower the sudden thirst this report had created in me to know her every meal, every conversation, every sigh that could possibly be dedicated to me, perhaps a scent that reminded her we used to wake up to each other. Anything could be a clue to her return.
Thanks, I wrote to Petr, this means everything.
I rubbed my sore eyes and shut off the Lounge lights, a habit
from home I could not shake, despite having limitless solar energy at my disposal. Somehow, not flicking a switch still seemed wasteful.
I made my way to the kitchen for a midnight snack, and recoiled at the sight.
The open refrigerator door was, along with the counters, covered in thin blotches of chocolate spread. A white lid floated across the room, cracked in two, and in front of me, suspended in midair, was the creature, two of its legs scratching along the inside of the Nutella jar. The creature blinked a few times, then extended the jar toward me.
“I am ashamed,” it said. “I seem to have acquired an inability to resist impulses when it comes to Earth’s hazelnut.”
With a trembling hand, I recovered the jar. “You’re back.”
“After our unpleasant confrontation, I needed to meditate and reconsider. You must understand that our encounter is not a simple matter for me.”
I approached the pantry and removed a package of tortillas. I spread the hazelnut miracle on the tortillas and rolled them up into anorexic burritos. The creature’s legs quivered as it watched me, possibly a sign of excitement.
“I’m happy you’re here,” I said.
“Before my departure, you asked about a name. My kind has no need for distinguishing marks, identities. We simply are. Would it help you to call me by a name, skinny human?”
“It would.”
“Call me by a smart human’s name. The name of a philosopher king, or a great mathematician.”
I revisited the catalog of great humans, the astonishing chronicle shining through the stained pages of history. There were so many—enough to convert anyone, briefly, to a perky optimist—but the correct one presented itself with absolution, as if the ghost of Adam’s first naming were speaking through me. Once upon a time, Adam pointed at what then was nothing, and he declared, Rabbit. And thus nothing became a rabbit.
“Hanuš,” I said.
And thus nothing became Hanuš.
“What has he done?” Hanuš asked.
I offered the burrito. With a grin, Hanuš accepted it between his teeth. He chewed with his lips and eyes closed, the bottom of his belly swinging from side to side as he emitted a low-pitched grumble resembling the sound of a large dog begging for treats. I was not sure why I had taken to calling him a he, as there was no sign of genitals.
“He constructed the astronomical clock in Prague. Orloj,” I said. “Later the city hired thugs to stick hot iron rods in his eyes, so that he would never build another. With blood dripping from his sockets, Hanuš reached inside the clock and interrupted its functions with a single flick of his hand. No one could fix the clock for the next hundred years.”
“He was an astronomer.”
“Yes. An explorer. Like yourself.”
“I will be called Hanuš.”
The creature settled on the floor, suddenly unaffected by zero gravity. He extended a leg toward me, his lips spread into a wide smile, regaining their previous bright red color. I touched the pointed tip of the leg, felt the hard sleek shell beneath the hairs. The tip was hot, like a freshly poured cup of tea. I made two more burritos.
“Why did you choose me?” I asked Hanuš.
“I have surveyed Earth from its orbit, skinny human. I have studied your history and learned your languages. Yet, having accessed all knowledge, I do not seem to understand. My original intent was to study you for a day or two, observe your habits. But access into your memory trapped me. I wished to know more, always. The great human specimen, an ideal subject.”
“If you say so.”
“Your question, of course, is what you can receive from me.”
“A hair sample. Blood sample. Anything you can give. The greatest gift would be for you to come to Earth.”
“Humanry does not inspire the trust required,” Hanuš said. “There is no benefit for my tribe. And I regret I cannot give you a piece of myself. The body cannot be violated. It is the law.”
“Is there nothing we could exchange?”
“Let us begin with the two of us—the awareness of single beings—and see where our cohabitation takes us.”
I nodded, and bit into the burrito. Could Hanuš presently read my thoughts of desperation? Czech astronaut discovers intelligent life in Space. The Czech president is the first world leader to shake hands with the extraterrestrial, and gives him a tour of the Prague Castle. State heads overwhelm the Prague airport with their aircrafts and stand in line to meet the new life-form. Hanuš agrees to noninvasive research by Czech scientists, and his organic functions lead to stunning advances in biology and medicine. The question of God’s death is debated more hotly than ever. Atheists reaffirm his nonexistence; Catholics speak against the demon spreading Satan’s deception. I am at the center of it all. Hanuš refuses to travel anywhere without my company.
“Do not hope for such things, skinny human,” Hanuš said, “though I must ask—is it possible to share more of Earth’s hazelnut?”
After making another wrap, I slid my hand inside the jar and the tortilla package to confirm that the ingredients I had used for Hanuš were truly vanishing. Madness remained an option, despite everything. That night, I slept without needing medication.
THE FOLLOWING DAY, I was scheduled to engage with selected citizens in a videoblog session. The first barrage of questions was business as usual—my religious beliefs, my opinion on wasting taxpayers’ money on the mission, the workings of Space toilets. The last question of the day came from a young man, a university type, with thin-lensed eyeglasses and a lisp. His awkward throat-clearing reminded me of my old university friends, those manic beings racing through downtown Prague with backpacks and McDonald’s sacks in hand, always frantic, always fidgeting, their hyperactive disorders a manifestation of sincere beliefs that they will, they must change the world. As soon as the young man asked his question, Petr’s eyes widened in horror on the second screen. It was obvious that the young man had lied about his question during the prescreening. His inquiry was number one on Central’s blacklist.
“How often do you think about dying due to mission failure?” he asked. “Does it make you feel anxious, or numb?”
I looked at Petr. He fondled his forehead and nodded weakly. The question had been posed, and cutting the live feed would only make it obvious to the nation that secrets were being kept, narratives manipulated, public perception controlled. No, in a democracy, a raised question resonates with a never-ending echo. I was to answer.
“When I think about death,” I said, “I think of a sun-covered porch in the mountains. I take a sip of hot rum. I take a bite of cheesecake, and I ask the woman I love to sit on my lap. Then, death.”
The ease with which I invented this false fantasy sent guilt aches into my head. The moderator announced the end of the session and the screen went dark, and I imagined the young man being roughly escorted outside the Central headquarters. Petr apologized, but I waved it off. My duties to the public were fulfilled for the day, and I’d stripped into my underpants and set out to find Hanuš.
“Other humans look up to you, skinny human,” Hanuš noted over our next dinner session, “as if you are the Elder of your tribe.”
TIME BECAME CHOPPY, like a scratched cassette tape. Tasks took longer to complete, I was always behind schedule, and lyrics from songs whose rhythm I had long forgotten returned to my mind and would not leave. It was as if the closer proximity to Venus was bringing about time warps, slowing my brain functions to a crawl while harvesting the most useless of memories—information that had no practical purpose, those simple pieces of living, like scraps of fabric that do not become part of the dress and are left littering the floor.
I checked email obsessively. Another update from the ministry arrived:
… cannot determine whether subject is engaged in sexual relationship with male acquaintance, Zdeněk K., age 37, slightly overweight but good-natured and clean-faced with secure job as bank teller…
… apartment does not allow visual access t
o determine nature of meetings. Ministry is able to order deep surveillance, which would allow agent to access apartment when empty, gather evidence such as semen…
… subject purchased a package of peanuts and frozen stir-fry, resulting in a cleverly rigged kung pao…
… living a seemingly peaceful, ordinary life, as if she has taken on another identity…
… motives remain largely a mystery, deep surveillance recommended.
I replied with Deep surveillance a go, thanks. I gave Hanuš the rest of my dinner, sick with shame. She had run off and begun living elsewhere, anonymous, or so she had hoped. I felt no happiness over her seeming satisfaction, her peace in solitude—my mind was filled only with vanity, a thirst for reassurance, guesses about what I had done to drive her away. Could I get Central to force her to communicate with me? But such imposed communication wouldn’t be worth anything. No, I would have to be patient.
A FEW DAYS into our dinner tradition, Hanuš started following me around on my Chopra preparation tasks. As I ventured into the small chamber that contained Ferda, the cosmic dust collector and the crucial component of the Chopra mission, he asked whether he could assist. I unfastened the thick screws securing the outside shell of Ferda’s grating and removed the layer of metal protecting the finer design of the filters inside the bulky cube. Hanuš’s eyes traveled wildly between me and the grating I held, the tips of his legs touching the underside of his belly. He was always eager to help, to hold a piece of human technology. When I extended the grating toward him, with a smile he offered a leg as a temporary holder. I could see the filters now, pads covered in sticky silicone meant to capture particles, the pads themselves attached to rails that would eventually guide them back inside the ship for manual analysis.
Spaceman of Bohemia Page 8
