Devil's Workshop by Jáchym Topol Page B

shook the image of Bojek’s head out of my mind.
    They sat on top of him, pinned him down. Someone pressed a bottle to his lips.
    I climbed out of the pit. Kůs came out after me. He knew I was going and he was glad. He didn’t want any more strife.
    Here. Kůs handed me something wrapped in greasy foil.
    Meat for the road, he said. And a bottle of red.
    Take care.
    Take care.
    I had barely taken a step before my fingers, more or less healed, were fumbling through my pockets. The key and the Spider, my treasures, they were still there. I jogged across the rubble, slipping between the thistles and the nettles. I knew every blade of grass around here. I walked through Manege Gate, out of town, to the main road, and into the ditch. Not a soul around. I got a move on.

     
    A cop car stops by the milestone.
    I crouch right below it, blending in with the nettles.
    I don’t move a muscle, taking care the bottle doesn’t clink. Hear a door slam, the radio crackles, cop gets out, pees in the ditch, the smell of wine, urine, and night. I don’t move. They leave.
    The stream of cars is thinning out. I climb up on the road. Morning sun. And I see lights. Prague.
    It’s daybreak.
    I pull the piece of paper from my pocket with Mr Mára’s address. Just in case. It could come in handy, so I memorize it.
    Where is your country anyway? I remember asking Alex.
    Between Poland and Russia.
    Now I take a step and WELCOME TO PRAGUE, WHERE YOUR LIFE IS GOOD , purrs a talking sign with the city seal. I smash the bottle against it, a few shards fall on the road, the rising sun leans into them, sparkling like it used to on my dad’s medals. That was a long time ago.

7
     
     
    A rumbling. I open my eyes but I’m not yet awake. Blaring trumpets and the boom-tata-boom of drums. An army parade? First of May? V-Day? Review of troops? I spring to my feet. I want out of this dream. I twitch. Doesn’t work. I hear a blast of sound outside the window … open it, yep, troops parading down the street, far below. Military music, shiny trombones, drum corps, maybe a whole platoon, drums strapped across their chests, just like they’re supposed to be. Next the ranks of infantry, field uniforms and gleaming bayonets. I lean my head against the wall, breathe in, breathe out. The air from outside’s refreshing. I sit back down on the bed. Window, table, hotel room – I’ve been in one of these before.
    Now I remember. Prague, me finally there, waving down a taxi, Sara taught me how to do that. Then the airport.
    How did it happen?
    Country boy scraped by thorns. Aching hands wrapped in rags. Nobody here cares. The airport’s huge, whole hall made of glass, full of light.
    Lockers, luggage? There, someone waves.
    I walk, squeezing the key Alex gave me tightly in my pocket. And the Spider.
    Whoa, a uniform. I’m startled, scared. A minute ago I just ducked a whole row of police.
    Brown, reddish hair. Big round eyes. It’s her.
    Maruška takes my hand. Smiles. I feel like we’re connected.
    She takes the key from me and opens the locker. Pants, jacket, boots, other stuff, just like Alex promised. I walk down the hall with the full plastic bag. She walks behind me. To the toilets.
    Get in there and change!
    What if somebody comes?
    They won’t.
    I clean myself up. Stinking of smoke, scratched, achy hands.
    There’s a T-shirt in the bag too, dress shirt, all that stuff.
    She walks in after me. All of a sudden it’s too much, her scent, the sweetness of her breath. And me in the hole, the fire, the long walk through the ditch. What now? Where am I going? I’ve hardly been anywhere.
    She lifts my hands, looks at them closely. Reaches into a satchel she has over her shoulder.
    Now she’s washing my hands. No one’s ever done that before. Gently, she spreads ointment on my hands, arms, the burned spots, then wraps them in a clean, dry bandage.
    She rolls up my sleeve, gives me an injection. My knees wobble as the needle enters my arm.
    She snaps the