Drive Your Plow Over the Bones of the Dead

by Olga Tokarczuk

  His father was a mining engineer. After the war he’d been given the task of revitalising a formerly German coalmine in Waldenburg, which – now that this region was part of Poland – had been renamed Wałbrzych. He was to work alongside an older man, the German technical manager of the mine, who wasn’t allowed to leave the country until the machines started working. At the time, the city was deserted; the Germans had left, and every day the trains brought new workers transferred from what had been eastern Poland, but they all settled in the same place, in one district only, as if the enormity of the empty city frightened them. The German manager did his best to perform his duty as quickly as possible, so he could finally leave for Swabia or Hesse or wherever. So he would invite Oddball’s father home for dinner, and soon the engineer had taken a fancy to the manager’s attractive daughter. In fact it was the best possible solution – for the young people to marry. Both for the mine and for the manager, as well as for the so-called people’s power, which now had the daughter of a German as a sort of hostage. But their marriage was troubled from the start. Oddball’s father spent a lot of time at work, often going to the bottom of the pit, because it was a difficult and demanding mine, where the anthracite was extracted from immense depths. Finally he came to feel better under the ground than above it, hard as that is to imagine. Once everything had gone to plan and the mine was up and running, their first child was born. The little girl was given the name Żywia, a traditional Slavic name, as a way of celebrating the return of the Western Territories to the Motherland. But gradually it became clear that the husband and wife simply disliked each other intensely. Świerszczyński began to use a separate entrance to the house and converted the basement area to provide himself with his own study and bedroom. At this point their son was born, in other words Oddball, perhaps the fruit of their final, farewell sexual intercourse. And then, knowing that his German wife had trouble pronouncing her own new surname, driven by some vengeful emotion that’s quite incomprehensible nowadays, the engineer gave his son the old-fashioned Slavic name Świętopełk. The mother, who couldn’t pronounce her own children’s names, died as soon as she had seen them through secondary school. Meanwhile, the father lost his mind completely and spent the rest of his life underground, in the basement, continually extending his network of rooms and corridors underneath the villa.

  ‘I must have inherited my eccentricities from my father,’ Oddball concluded.

  I was truly moved by his story, but also by the fact that never before (or since) had I heard him make such a long speech. I’d love to have known about further episodes in his life – for instance, I was curious to learn who Black Coat’s mother was – but now he seemed sad and exhausted. And we also found we had quite unconsciously eaten all the strawberries.

  Now that he had revealed his real name to me, I couldn’t refuse to go to the meeting with him, so that afternoon we went. The Tools that I kept in the back of the Samurai rattled as drove along.

  ‘What are you carrying about in this car?’ asked Świętopełk. ‘What on earth do you need all those things for? A camping cooler? A petrol can? Shovels?’

  Surely he knew that if you live on your own in the mountains you have to be self-sufficient?

  By the time we arrived everyone was seated at the table, drinking strong coffee brewed in the glass. To my surprise I noticed that the Penny Buns Mushroom Pickers’ Society had a large membership, including people whom I knew well from the shops and kiosks, and from the street, and some whom I hardly recognised. So this was the one thing capable of bringing people together – mushroom picking. The conversation was dominated from the start by two men of the genus Woodcock who, like those noisy birds, outshouted each other in an effort to recount their rather unexciting adventures, which they both called ‘anecdotes’. Several other people endeavoured to silence them, but to no effect. As I learned from the woman sitting to my left, the ball was to be held at the firehouse, which was situated near the Fox farm, not far from Ox Heart Corner, but some of the members were protesting against that plan.

  ‘It won’t be much fun having a party near the spot where a friend of ours died,’ said the man chairing the meeting, whom I was pleased to recognise as the school’s history teacher. I would never have guessed he was keen on mushrooms too.

  ‘That’s one thing,’ said the woman sitting opposite me, who ran a newspaper kiosk and often kept magazines for me. ‘Apart from that, it could still be dangerous around there. Some of the ladies and gentlemen smoke, for instance, and will want to go outside into the fresh air…’

  ‘I should mention that smoking is not allowed inside the firehouse, whereas we can only drink alcohol indoors, according to the permission we’ve obtained. Otherwise it’ll be classed as public consumption and it’ll be illegal.’

  A murmur ran through the assembled company.

  ‘What’s that?’ called a man in a khaki waistcoat. ‘I, for one, like to smoke when I drink. And vice versa. So what am I to do?’

  The history teacher chairing the meeting was perplexed, and in the confusion that followed, everyone started giving advice on how to resolve the situation.

  ‘You can stand in the doorway, with one hand holding your glass inside, and the other holding your cigarette outside,’ someone shouted from the back of the room.

  ‘The smoke will get inside anyway…’

  ‘There’s a roofed terrace there. Does the porch count as inside, or outside?’ someone else asked sensibly.

  The chairman rapped on the table, and at that very moment a late arrival entered the room – it was ‘the President’, apparently an honorary member of the Society. Everyone fell silent. The President was one of those people who are used to being the centre of attention. From his early youth he had been on the board of something or other: the school student union, the Boy Scouts Service for People’s Poland, the local council, the quarry company – supervisory bodies of every possible kind. Even though he had served as a member of parliament for one term, everyone called him the President. In the habit of running the show, he solved the problem immediately.

  ‘In truth, we can have a buffet on the porch, and we’ll declare the terrace the buffet zone,’ he joked genially, though few people laughed at his pun.

  Admittedly, he was a good-looking man, though disfigured by an ample belly. He was self-confident, charming, and his Jovian physique inspired confidence. Oh yes, this man was born to rule. And he didn’t know how to do anything else.

  The smug President delivered a short speech about how life must go on, even after the greatest tragedies. He larded it with little jokes, and kept appealing to ‘our lovely ladies’. He had the rather common habit of repeating a favourite phrase every now and then. In his case it was ‘in truth’.

  I had my Theory about interjections of this kind: every single Person has their own expression which he or she overuses. Or uses incorrectly. These words or phrases are the key to their intellect. Mr ‘Apparently’, Mr ‘Generally’, Mrs ‘Probably’, Mr ‘Fucking’, Mrs ‘Don’t You Think?’, Mr ‘As If’. The President was Mr ‘In Truth’. Of course there are entire fashions for some words, just like the ones that for some crazy reason suddenly make everyone start going about in identical shoes or clothes – people just as suddenly start using one particular word or phrase. Recently the word ‘generally’ was fashionable, but now ‘actually’ is out in front.

  ‘In truth, the dearly departed’ – at this point he made a gesture, as if trying to cross himself – ‘was a good friend of mine – we had many shared interests. He was also a keen mushroom picker, and I’m sure he would have joined us this year. In truth, he was a very decent man, of broad horizons. He gave people jobs, and in truth, for that alone we should respect his memory. Jobs don’t grow on trees. He died in mysterious circumstances, but in truth, the Police will soon get to the bottom of the case. In truth, we shouldn’t let ourselves be terrorised, or give in to fear. Life has its rules, and we cannot ignore them. Courage, dear friends, m
y lovely ladies – in truth, I’m all for putting an end to the gossip and groundless hysteria. In truth, we must trust the authorities and live according to our common values.’ He spoke as if he were a candidate in a forthcoming election.

  I couldn’t help thinking that someone who overuses the phrase ‘in truth’ is sure to be a liar.

  The people at the meeting went back to their chaotic debate. Once again someone brought up the topic of the beast lurking in the countryside near Kraków last year. Was it really safe to hold the ball in the firehouse, right at the edge of the biggest forest in the area?

  ‘Do you remember how the television followed the operation run by the Police in September to catch the mysterious animal in a village near Kraków? One of the locals happened to have filmed a predator on the run, probably a young lion,’ said an excited young man. I thought I recognised him from Big Foot’s house.

  ‘Nah, you must have got something mixed up. A lion? Here?’ said the man in khaki.

  ‘It wasn’t a lion, it was a young tiger,’ said Mrs Merrilegs; that was what I called her, because she was tall and nervous and sewed very elaborate costumes for the local ladies, so this name suited her best. ‘I saw the pictures on TV.’

  ‘He’s right, let him finish, that’s how it was,’ the women said indignantly.

  ‘The Police spent two days searching for that lion or tiger, that animal – they used helicopters and an anti-terrorist brigade, remember? It all cost half a million but they never found it.’

  ‘Perhaps it has moved here?’

  ‘Apparently it could kill with a stroke of its paw.’

  ‘It bit off heads.’

  ‘The Chupacabra,’ I said.

  There was a silence. Even the two Woodcocks fixed their gaze on me.

  ‘What is a chupacabra?’ asked Merrilegs, sounding alarmed.

  ‘It’s a mysterious Animal that can’t be caught. A vengeful Beast.’

  Now everyone was talking at once. I could see that Oddball was getting flustered. He was rubbing his hands, as if about to leap to his feet and strangle the first person to come along. Plainly the meeting was at an end and nobody could possibly restore order now. I felt rather guilty about bringing up the Chupacabra, but so what? I was conducting my own sort of campaign too.

  No, no, people in our country don’t have the ability to club together to form a community, not even under the banner of the penny bun. This is a land of neurotic egotists, each of whom, as soon as he finds himself among others, starts to instruct, criticise, offend, and show off his undoubted superiority.

  I think in the Czech Republic it’s totally different. The people there are capable of discussing things calmly, and nobody quarrels with anyone else. Even if they wanted to, they couldn’t, because their language isn’t suited to quarrelling.

  We got home late, and in a stew. Oddball didn’t say a word on the return journey. I drove the Samurai via short cuts, down tracks full of potholes, and I enjoyed the way it kept throwing us from door to door as it jumped one puddle after another. We said goodbye with a curt ‘See you’.

  I stood in the dark, empty kitchen and sensed that I was just about to be seized by the same thing as usual – weeping. So I thought it would be best if I stopped thinking and did something. To this end I sat at the table and wrote the following letter:

  To the Police

  As I have not received an answer to my previous letter, although according to law every public office in the country is obliged to respond within a period of fourteen days, I am forced to repeat my explanations concerning the recent, highly tragic incidents in our district, and in so doing to present certain observations that cast light on the mysterious deaths of the Commandant and of Innerd, owner of the fox farm.

  Although it looks like an accident while performing the dangerous job of a policeman, or perhaps an unfortunate coincidence, one does have to ask if the Police have established WHAT WAS THE VICTIM DOING AT THAT TIME IN THAT PLACE? Are there any known motives, for to many people, including the undersigned, it seems extremely odd. Moreover, the undersigned was there on the spot, and found (which could be important to the Police) a vast number of Animal prints, especially the marks of deer hooves. It looked as if the deceased had been lured out of his car and led into the undergrowth, under which the fatal well was hidden. It is highly possible that the Deer he persecuted inflicted summary justice.

  The situation of the next victim looks similar, although it won’t be possible to confirm the presence of any footprints after such a long time. However, the dramatic course of events can be explained by the form of death. Here we have a situation that is easy to imagine, where the victim is enticed into the bushes, into a spot where snares are usually set. There he falls into the trap and is deprived of his life (as to how, that would have to be investigated).

  At the same time I wish to appeal to the gentlemen of the Police not to shy away from the idea that the perpetrators of the above-mentioned tragic incidents could be Animals. I have prepared some information that casts a little light on these matters, for it is a long time since we have had cases of crimes committed by these creatures.

  I must start with the Bible, in which it is clearly stated that if an Ox kills a woman or a man, it should be stoned to death. Saint Bernard excommunicated a swarm of Bees, whose buzzing prevented him from working. Bees also had to answer for the death of a Man from the city of Worms in the year 846. The local parliament condemned them to death by suffocation. In 1394 in France some Pigs killed and ate a child. The Sow was sentenced to hang, but her six children were spared, taking their young age into consideration. In 1639 in France, a court in Dijon sentenced a Horse for killing a Man. There have been cases not only of Murder, but also of crimes against nature. Thus in Basel in 1471 there was a lawsuit against a Hen, which laid strangely coloured eggs. It was condemned to death by burning, for being in cahoots with the devil. Here I must add my own comment, that intellectual limitation and human cruelty know no bounds.

  The most famous trial took place in France, in 1521. It was the trial of some Rats, which had been causing a lot of destruction. They were summoned to court by the townsfolk and were appointed a public defence counsel, a quick-witted lawyer named Bartolomeo Chassenée. When his clients failed to appear at the first hearing, Chassenée petitioned for a deferment, testifying that they lived in wide dispersal, on top of which many dangers lay in wait for them on the way to the court. He even appealed to the court to provide a guarantee that Cats belonging to the plaintiffs would not do the defendants any harm on their way to the hearing. Unfortunately, the court could not provide any such guarantee, so the case was postponed several times more. Finally, after an ardent speech by their defence counsel, the Rats were acquitted.

  In 1659 in Italy the owners of vineyards destroyed by Caterpillars submitted to them a written summons to court. Pieces of paper with the wording of the summons were nailed to trees in the area, so the Caterpillars might become acquainted with the indictment.

  In citing these recognised historical facts, I demand that my Suppositions and Conjectures be given serious consideration. They demonstrate that similar thinking has occurred in European jurisdiction before, and that they can be taken as a precedent.

  At the same time I petition for the Deer and other eventual Animal Culprits to go unpunished, because their alleged deed was a reaction to the soulless and cruel conduct of the victims, who were, as I have thoroughly investigated, active hunters.

  Yours faithfully,

  Duszejko

  First thing next morning I drove to the post office. I wanted the letter to be sent registered, as then I would have proof of posting. However, it all seemed a little pointless, for the Police station is bang opposite the post office, on the other side of the street.

  As I emerged, a taxi stopped in front of me and the Dentist leaned out of it. When he drinks, he has himself carried about by taxi, and that’s how he spends the money he earns from pulling teeth.

  ‘He
y, Mrs Duszeńko,’ he called. He had a red face and a foggy look in his eyes.

  ‘Duszejko,’ I corrected him.

  ‘The day of vengeance is nigh. The regiments of hell are closing in,’ he shouted, and waved at me through the window. Then with a squeal of tyres the taxi set off in the direction of Kudowa.

  XIII

  THE NIGHT ARCHER

  He who torments the Chafers Sprite

  Weaves a Bower in endless Night.

  Two weeks before the mushroom pickers’ planned festivity I went to see Good News, and in the back room we searched through tons of clothes looking for costumes. Unfortunately there wasn’t a very large choice of things for adults. Most of the fancy dress was for children, and here there was plenty to raise a smile – the children could be whomever they wished – a Frog, Zorro, Batman or a Tiger. But we did manage to find a pretty good wolf mask. So I decided to be a Wolf; we fashioned the rest of the outfit ourselves by finishing off a furry jumpsuit with paws made out of stuffed gloves. The costume fitted me perfectly. Dressed in the mask, I could freely look out at the world from inside the jaws of a Wolf.

  It was worse for Oddball, unfortunately. We failed to dig out anything for such an imposing physique. Everything was too small for him. But finally Good News hit upon a simple, but brilliant idea. Since we already had a Wolf…All that remained was to bring Oddball round to this idea.

  Early on the day of the party, after a nocturnal storm, I was studying the damage the downpour had caused to my experimental pea plants when I saw the forester’s car on the road and waved at him to stop. He was a nice young man for whom my private name was Wolf Eye, for I’d swear blind there was something odd about his pupils – they seemed to be an uncanny shape, oblong. He was here because of the storm too – he was counting how many large old spruces had been damaged in the entire area.