Author: Kiss Tibor Noé
Translator: Austin Wagner
May 2023

I believe people are intrinsically good, and at one time my grandmother might also have been good. I could watch TV for hours when I visited, but she never allowed me to pet the baby chicks. I am careless, I squeeze them, they die. Lemon yellow feathered pillows, jostling and cheeping under the sun lamp. Their beaks, the wirework mesh, my hand, all colored red by the warm light, a light in which everything becomes transparent. My grandmother’s face is an icon. She smiles at the baby chicks, her crooked fingers sprinkle ground corn. And she would slap me, exactly one at once, always just one big slap. Sometimes I would have preferred more little slaps. Even when it was the boys who threw gravel at the windows, it was me who got slapped. Instead, I went with them on a motorcycle ride, or hid behind the woodpile, or locked myself in the bathroom. If I stood on the stool I could reach the latch and see myself in the mirror. I stared at the swollen, purpling blotch on my face, it burned, I patted it, my tears flowed. My mother didn’t know about the slaps, and I too pretended I didn’t know about the slaps.

The trail near the lake starts from the Arctic Fox. It was paved several years ago, solar-powered lamps were installed either side of it. I lean against the back of the bench. Mud patches in the lake bed, some puddles, waist-high sedge. The earth is fractured, made up of dark brown bits of mosaic. The lake dried up last summer. The dead fish were removed immediately, sand coated the fishermen’s boats slowly. The county paper ran a story featuring the locals, nature documentarians pitched their tents in the lake bed, 444 even shared Zita’s photos. It’s been the talk of village since last year. The lake had been visible from the end of the garden, even from beside the cabin. Its sleepy, mirrored surface, weeping willows on the shore. We instantly fell in love with this view, the gently sloping yard, the fir trees, the terrace’s wood-carved railing. The realtor had praised the community, the peaceful, hardworking folk. It’s close to the highway, the reinforced concrete frame is massive, the garage can double as a guest room. Just look at those perfect roof tiles.

“All funeral arrangements had fallen to him. He smashed through the paperworks, his signatures appeared out of nowhere on dotted lines, the ballpoint pen in his hand was a stranger’s. He selected the coffins’ wood from a thick catalogue. He jabbed a finger at it, two mahogany. A nearby restaurant was providing the cold cuts.” I got this book today. I thought a little work would do me good after grandmother’s death, and the publisher found something for me right away. There’s a Buddhist reference in the title, indecipherable sketches between the chapters. A young writer, a contemporary story, multiple narrators, a security guard and a nail stylist. This is perfect, zero risk, I thought, and then on page fifteen the grandparents die. Carbon monoxide poisoning, the grandfather’s chess partner finds them. A weak solution to say the back door was always open, but I’m just here to mark the grammatical errors. Simple past ‘fell’ instead of ‘had fallen’, singular ‘paperwork’, not plural. The coffins’ wood, the coffins’ wood, I repeat to myself. I can’t come to terms with it. I mark it and set the text aside. Pour myself a vermouth, this day is a lost cause. The fir branches glint through the window panes. Overcast sky, the occasional pale star. The cat sits on the kitchen floor waiting for her dinner. The wicker basket next to the fireplace is empty, I have no new messages.

The nights here are all the same. The air cools quickly after dark, I mix a caffeine-free coffee, the neighbor’s donkey brays. The entire valley echoes with it. As a child I was afraid of this sound, everyone laughed at me. The screen door bangs, the neighbor shuffles over flagstones, checks the hen house latches. I saw no fox today, but it is always there. He gasps for air between the words, his lungs rattle. The golden jackal has already crossed the county border, miss. I start as the donkey brays once more. As a child I wept. It was like the donkey had swallowed wrong and was now intentionally forcing a cough. How can it make such sounds. Give my regards to Attila, miss. It’s so good that there are still folk like Attila. Like Attila, always just Attila, in the dark he doesn’t see my grimace. He only hears my voice. A few kind words, a tune creeping between the slats of fence. My mother was the only one who always protected me. The neighbor wheezes on the veranda, clips in to the oxygen tank, pulls it along behind him. The key turns twice in the lock, the aluminum wheels creak. The realtor had said nothing about the donkey.