He came at once and Xeno asked him for a cigarette.
They’re in my office, I’ll go and fetch them, he said, then looked up at the smoke alarm. Shall I bring my ladder too, and tape that thing up?
Not necessary, she said, I’ll smoke by the window.
He came back, gave her the packet and said, Keep it. There are only five left. I’ve got more in my office.
Thanks, that’s very kind. Do you have a light?
She stood smoking by the window, staring at Bohumil in a way that made him feel uncomfortable. As if she were all at sea. And looking straight through him. Was it because of the Jubilee Project? He knew that there were problems with it, obviously, in fact he’d been expecting her to talk to him about it. But she didn’t touch on the project. It was eerie. She was a hard-nosed pragmatist, but he’d never seen her so unhinged. O.K., he said, taking a step backwards. He was about to leave the room when Xeno said, Do you have a passport?
Bohumil looked at her in astonishment.
I mean, she said, what passport do you have?
She was expecting him to say, A Czech passport, of course. And she would have nodded and envied his “of course”. But for a moment she was dumbstruck. I’ve got an Austrian passport, he said. Why do you ask?
She looked at him, holding the cigarette to her lips without taking a drag and screwing up her eyes. Then she stuck the hand with the cigarette out of the window and shook her head. Did you just say an Austrian passport?
Yes, Austrian. Why?
That’s what I’d like to know. Why? You’re Czech.
Yes, but I was born in Vienna. My grandparents came over in 1968, when the Russian tanks quashed the Prague Spring – you know, the Prague Spring?
Xeno nodded.
Well, my grandparents fled to Austria. With my father, who was sixteen at the time. Ten years later my father married my mother, who was also the child of Czech refugees in Vienna. By then the two of them were Austrian citizens, and so when I was born I was an Austrian citizen too. In December 1989, right after the revolution, we went back to Prague. This was my parents’ triumph, the fall of communism. I was ten at the time. In 2002 I did the concours in Brussels. I’d studied political science in Prague, but I wanted to get out and it was a good thing I still had my Austrian passport, because Austria was already a member of the E.U., whereas the Czech Republic wasn’t. That’s why I’m here and – he smiled – that’s why I’m a smoker and always have a packet to spare.
Xeno looked at him, her eyebrows raised.
Well, as a small child I would spend every evening with my parents in Vienna’s smokiest pub, Azyl, a meeting point for exiled Czech dissidents and those who’d escaped. My parents went there every evening, they didn’t have any money for babysitters so they just took me along. They’d spend hours chatting to Václav Havel when he was in Vienna, Pavel Kohout, Karel Schwarzenberg, Jaroslav Hutka and all the others. And they chain-smoked, every one of them. I would sit or sleep beside them, I was addicted to nicotine before I even smoked my first cigarette.
He laughed, but broke off when he saw Xeno’s face.
And? she said.
That wasn’t the end, he said – he’d understood “End?” – or maybe it was: for my father. Havel became president, Schwarzenberg foreign minister, Kohout almost got the Nobel Prize in Literature – at least that’s what he said – and Hutka, who’d been a star on Radio Free Europe, toured the country with his protest songs until a generation had grown up who no longer understood them. He retired with the title “living legend”. My father became education minister . . . and on the day he was sworn in he suffered a heart attack. He went down in Czech history as the “ten-minute minister”.
I’m sorry.
Thanks. Me too.
At any rate, you can speak German, Xeno said.
Lausig, Bohumil said in German.
Lousily?
Yes.
But why? If you —
Because when we went back to Prague, so from the age of ten, I never spoke it again. And although I learned German at primary school in Vienna, we always spoke Czech at home. In fact there’s only one thing I’ve retained: I can’t help laughing at German loanwords in Czech. “Pinktlich”, for example. It’s a Czech word that comes from the German and means everything that’s unappealing and ugly and typically German: it means pedantic, inflexible, insensitive, mercilessly thorough, self-righteous, with Prussian discipline – if someone’s like that, in Czech you say that they’re pinktlich.
He laughed. And stopped laughing at once. Xeno’s poker face.
I see, she said. What about the passport? Did you ever have a problem with it?
No, why? What sort of problem? It doesn’t matter which passport I have, does it? It’s a European passport.
Xeno had tossed the cigarette out of the window and now took another from the packet, put it between her lips and stuck her mouth towards Bohumil. If you ignored the cigarette it looked as if she wanted to give him a kiss.
He lit her cigarette, she thanked him and turned to the window, which Bohumil took as a subtle hint that he could leave now.
He said, O.K., well, and she said nothing, she just stared out of the window. So he went. He felt as if he were leaving a morgue. Could he identify the corpse? It looked familiar, but he couldn’t be sure.
What was Xeno’s problem? So surprised was she by Bohumil’s story it was as if she were paralysed. Cheery old Bohumil. But it wasn’t that simple. She was torn. She was divided in two. She didn’t understand why she should be, for in a some way his story was hers too. And yet hers was quite different. This confused her. Initially.
She had a passport that had always been her European passport, rather than a badge of her national or ethnic identity. For her it was the entry ticket into Europe’s realm of freedom, free movement and the right of establishment, it was her licence to go her own way in Europe. Χαῖρε, ὦ χαῖρε, Ἐλευθερία! she had sung fervently as a schoolgirl in Cyprus on occasions when the national anthem was played: Hail, O hail, Liberty! But it would never have crossed her mind that as a Greek Cypriot she must become a Cypriot nationalist – that was totally alien to her. Why should your place of birth be more important than the ambitions you could have – indeed had to have – as a human being? Freedom, she could understand that, but Cyprus über alles? That would never have occurred to her. Which was why she hadn’t been in the least surprised when she came to Greece to study and realised that they sang the same hymn here: Χαῖρε, ὦ χαῖρε, Ἐλευθερία! For her, therefore, it wasn’t an affirmation of nationality, nor did she find it at all confusing that two countries should have the same hymn, a hymn that for her was simply a song about freedom – and how apt it was for her situation: Arisen from the sacred bones of the Greeks! Arising, rebirth – this implied energy, a productive force. But surely the promise of freedom couldn’t mean: wither away in your narrow world, but your thoughts are free! Look at the olive trees in the parched grove beside your house! How little they need, and yet their leaves shimmer like silver in the sunlight.
If your thoughts are free then so must your opportunities be, your deeds, your actions. She already understood this when she was twelve, dragging bottles of mineral water to the dried-up Baths of Aphrodite, for tourists from all corners of the globe. From all corners of the globe – she had learned this at school – they always came to Cyprus, because Cyprus is so close to Turkey, to Greece, to Syria and Egypt, so was always a crossroads between Europe, Asia and Africa. Cyprus wasn’t a nation, this island was a tiny ship, rocking on the waves of history and the tides of nations and the wealthy who surfaced and then sank again.
When she obtained her Greek passport she would never have thought that this meant she was abandoning and betraying the country of her birth. For her the Greek passport was a travel document, from the island with a dove on its coat of arms to the continent that regarded itself as a peace project and offered her career opportunities. Now she found i
t totally crazy that she should relinquish this passport and exchange it for another, which could do nothing different and promised nothing different from the old one. It only demanded of her that as a Greek Cypriot she decide whether she was Greek or Cypriot. She was to swap her passport, which she had considered to be a European document, for one that was now a profession of nationality – in order to further her career in Europe. Yes, that was crazy. She had worked long enough in the Commission to know that the nationalists were bashing this Europe with escalating brutality, this Europe in which she wanted to go her own way, freely, with all the anger and frustration she’d brought from her narrow world and which, it struck her then, was perhaps subconsciously an anger at the constraints that forced one to say, I am . . . a Cypriot! Or a Greek. Or something else. Anybody who says, You are . . . means: Stay where you are!
Fridsch’s suggestion had turned her entire life upside-down. Identity was just a piece of paper, wasn’t it? Would she become a different person if she swapped this piece of paper for another? Would she become a different person if, instead of “Hail, O hail, Liberty!”, she now sang “Hail, O hail, Liberty!”, the anthem of the new passport, which was identical to the anthem of the old one? Yes – because she would have swapped an anthem to freedom for a national anthem, and thus the same text and same melody would assume a quite different meaning. She had been born in Cyprus a Greek, and in Greece she was a Greek, born in Cyprus. It was crazy that she was being forced to regard this identity as a dual one, requiring her to make a decision: You are schizophrenic – decide who you are!
The awful truth was that, beneath it all, she knew she was lying to herself in her ruminations. Of course she would grasp this opportunity and change passports. It took her two hours to admit this to herself. She was a pragmatist. And this was nothing more than a pragmatic decision. Why should she have such scruples? Because she had a niggling feeling that something inside her was dying. And who likes to die? The prospect of a better life thereafter, whether you’re talking about God or a career, is no more than a desperate consolation.
She began an e-mail to Mrs Atkinson, then paused and closed the document. A window popped up that said, “Save as a draft?”
How happy she would be if in life it were possible to do what the computer offered: to save drafts. She clicked on “No”, leaned back and thought: O.K.
It was almost 5.00 p.m. She wrote another circular e-mail to her colleagues: “Meeting re: burying Jubilee Project tomorrow, 11.00 a.m.”
Martin Susman would be back by then.
She deleted “burying” then clicked “Send”.
Xeno switched off her computer and left the office. She didn’t want to “go home”, to her small, functional apartment which was basically a place to sleep with a walk-in wardrobe. But she didn’t want to stay here any longer either, at a workplace she’d already deserted with the decision she had just made. A drink somewhere? She couldn’t decide. If so, then in Het Lachende Varken, the café in the street where she lived.
She walked up rue Josef II to Maelbeek Metro station. The information board on the platform said: Next train in 6 minutes.
So it really was true. A man could be transformed into a beetle.
This thought was just a tiny and yet typical symptom of the fact that strong, robust Florian Susman was all of a sudden a different man: shocked, helpless, desperate. He was not well read. His younger brother Martin had always been the one into books.
What are you reading now? Stories about Indians?
No. A man is turned into an insect, a beetle.
By a magician?
No. Just like that. Out of the blue. He wakes up and finds he’s a beetle.
How weird he’d found his younger brother in those days. How could you read something like that, waste your time with such stupid books? He had been his father’s son, the designated heir to the throne, idolised by his father even though he’d been treated without affection. He, who would take over the farm one day, must not be a sissy, he must never be weak or dreamy. His father didn’t express emotion. If he ever showed any at all, it would be a look of approval, a nod or an awkward arm around Florian’s shoulder and a brief squeeze that said, My son!
Martin was his mother’s son, a dreamy child who cried a lot, read a lot and was often frightened. Then he would run to “Mama”, who protected him, but she too found it hard to show affection. Life’s struggles had hardened her, the debts they had incurred in the expansion of the farm into a pig enterprise and slaughterhouse had given her sleepless nights. Every muscle was tense. Those who carry weights cannot caress. Which didn’t mean that she rejected him, even though she was sometimes bemused and wondered why he was as he was. She felt that he ought to toughen up, he needed a shell, and certainly he ought to show willingness to do his bit, help out with the work on the farm, no matter how inept he was. Whenever she caught him reading she would send him to the stalls. It was pointless, because by this time the pigs were being fed mechanically and the stalls were mucked out by two employees using machinery. Which meant that Martin just got in the way. Eventually he would run back to the kitchen, where she let him either help with the cooking or read. Until he had to set the table when the men came in to eat, his father, his elder brother and the two employees with their pungent odour – the men.
Transformed into a beetle? Just like that? Without a magician? What nonsense!
Can you remember, Florian said, how old we were? Fourteen and sixteen? And now he lay there like a beetle that had fallen on its back. Now he had been transformed into a helpless beetle. Suddenly. Just like that. And was waiting to be looked after. Waiting for infusions to combat the pain, waiting for food, waiting for attention. Whenever he could he read, newspapers at first, and then the books that Martin brought him. When reading became too strenuous, made his eyes tired and his arms heavy, he dozed, ruminated, dreamed. In-between times his younger brother attended to an array of matters that had arisen and needed to be dealt with, while Florian lay helpless on his back. Discussions with the ward doctor and telephone conversations with the company Florian had private supplementary insurance with. He made enquiries as to which surgeon had the best reputation, in order that he might have them carry out the complicated and dangerous operation on Florian’s back. They needed to be a master of their craft . . .
A magician?
No, just a no-nonsense master of their craft, Martin said.
Martin informed the Austrian pig farmers’ guild, the chamber of commerce, Florian’s business partners and the chair of the European Pig Producers. At Florian’s request he asked the E.P.P. for a report of the conference in Budapest and stayed in constant contact with Marlene, Florian’s wife, who had to hold the fort on the farm. He organised a lawyer specialising in traffic offences and accident damage, instructing him to represent his brother against the insurance company of the taxi driver, who had been to blame for the devastating accident, and this led to a civil case to press the compensation claims for both damage and personal injury.
Florian either read or stared at the ceiling. An uncanny role reversal, just like that, suddenly, without a magician.
Now Florian had a titanium plate and twelve screws in his back, his spine had been stabilised, the spinal cord was undamaged and any danger of being paralysed had evaporated. Florian was congratulated on his lucky escape.
He lay on his back, dreaming, occasionally sighed or groaned, and he smiled when his brother whispered to him, dabbed the sweat from his brow and took his hand.
When our father died he was as old as I am now, Florian said. I was young at the time, but I could . . . my children, if I’d died now – Elisabeth is seven, Paul is five – it would be . . .
Isn’t it weird that this happened to me now, at the age our father was when . . . do you know what’s strange? I’ve never thought about death. Not even beside Father’s open grave. A shovelful of earth thrown on top and . . . yes, I was in shock. But I never thought about death, only about myself. For t
he living, death is always the death of others.
He ruminated.
If I’d died now, I wouldn’t have been able to say goodbye, he said. Just like our father wasn’t able to say goodbye.
He paused, then said, Is it better if you can say goodbye? Or is it only more painful?
He thought hard.
If I’d been paralysed, would you have helped me to end it? I wouldn’t have wanted to go on living. Now I think I can rely on you.
No, Martin said.
As far as possible Martin exhausted his unused holiday, carer’s leave, and eventually the opportunity of unpaid leave. Spring came, balmy air flooded in through open windows, the first pollen, and the hospital room was overheated because according to the calendar it should be cooler, and the heating worked in accordance with the calendar rather than the actual weather, Florian pushed the duvet off, shouted Ow! when he had to sneeze, the physical trauma still hurt his back, he sweated then shivered in the draught from the open window, Martin had to cover him up, then Florian angrily pushed the duvet away again, the only energetic thing he could do, the beetle lying on its back.
Martin had kept a small apartment in Vienna, in the second district, a pied-à-terre for whenever he came home for a few days, but it had never been home, it was a base, a kitchenette in which he’d never made anything apart from coffee, never opened a drawer apart from the one containing the bottle opener, where from one visit to the next jam would grow mould and butter pass its use-by date. A room with a bed and table. And boxes. Eight large packing boxes. He had left them here when he gave up his former apartment because he was moving to Brussels. Now he couldn’t remember what was in them. His home. He had a room on the farm too, in his parents’ house, with the pigs, three hours from Vienna, that wasn’t home either, what was there for him?
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