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Mitana, Dušan: The revelation (Zjavenie in English)

Portre of Mitana, Dušan

Zjavenie (Slovak)

Volajme ho Dušan. Alebo Jonáš. Mama mu hovorila Duško, otec Dušan. Priezvisko: Jonáš. Po otcovi. Syn je nositeľom ot­covho priezviska, známa vec. Otec sa volal Michal, po archan­jelovi Michaelovi. Matka Mária, za slobodna Bučková. Bolo mu fuk, ako ho volajú, napokon, v istom štádiu života bol aj budhistom, veril v karmu a reinkarnáciu, hoci bol vraj pokrs­tený luterán. Tak mu hovorili. Pochopiteľne, že si na to nepa­mätal, veď mal iba osem dní, kto by si to pamätal.Pamätal si iba na svoj prvý pocit: STRACH.
Áno, na počiatku bol strach.
Býval v sieťovej detskej postieľke, kovovej, natretej bielou farbou, mreže boli z povrazov ako siete na futbalových brán­kach, z oboch strán, bola to klietka, ale on bol ešte malý, sla­bý, neduživý, nedosiahol hore, aby stiahol tie bočné mreže, a vrchom nevylezie, hoci klietka nie je zhora uzavretá. Ne­vyletí! Je malý, a aj keby sa dokázal postaviť a opustiť klietku, dom neopustí! Vidí z postieľky okná a aj na oknách sú mre­že, husté železné mreže. Keď sa narodil, bola tu krčma, ale dedo dostal echo o znárodnení, najprv chcel krčmu podpá­liť, ale uhovorili ho. Rozpredal inventár a premenil krčmu na byt. Bývali v ňom spolu s tetou Annou a strýkom Emilom.
Jonáš je sám a vie, že ho zvonku zamkli a niekto ho po­zoruje. V kľúčovej dierke občas zbadá oko: studené, bela­sé, nehybné oko; možno je sklené, umelé, mŕtve, lebo nikdy nežmurkne. Mama je už v robote, robí predavačku v neďalekom obchode so zmiešaným tovarom s názvom BUDÚCNOSŤ, dedo odišiel kosiť lúku, je tu sám, a je mokrý, opäť sa počural, ale musí vydržať až do obeda, vie, že mama príde a vyslobodí ho, vymení mu plicnky, áno, musí vydržať, lebo to oko ho sleduje, a keby začal kričať, plakať a prosiť o po­moc, to mŕtve oko by ožilo, dvere by sa otvorili a Agitátor by sa mu začal posmievať: „Zas si sa pošťal, nevydržíš ani do obeda, ty kopa hovien, nikdy nebude z teba chlap?”
Podnájomník, áno, mali podnájomníka a hovoril, že sa volá NERO - jeho skutočné meno sa nikdy nedozvedeli... Bol mladý, hádam dvadsaťročný, prišiel s „úderkou” rov­nako mladých nadšených dobrodincov, ktorí presviedčali zaostalých dedinčanov o šťastnej budúcnosti v spoločnom JRD, preto ho medzi sebou volali Agitátor, ale oficiálne ho oslovovali súdruh Nero - tak sa mu to páčilo. Ostatní agitá­tori opustili ich dedinu, lebo väčšina hlúpych občanov ešte nebola zrelá pre budúcnosť a odmietala podpísať prihlášku, ale Nero zostal. La podnájomníka ho museli prijať, hoci ne­platil ani korunu; prikázali im to z MNV, kde mal súdruh Nero vlastnú kanceláriu. Keď sa ho pýtali, čo vlastne robí, dohromyseľne odvetil: „Pomáham ľudom na ceste do Raja.” Aj im pomohol. Najmä strýkovi, ale vlastne aj otcovi. Otec bol v 38. roku na západných hraniciach, v Čechách, a až do smrti tvrdil, že sme nemali ustupovať. Bol presvedčený, že líniu by Nemci neboli prerazili, hovoril, že bunkre boli do­konale opevnené a absolútna väčšina obrancov bola ochotná zomrieť, ale západné veľmoci ich zradili. Bolo to vraj menšie zlo. Neskôr, o veľa rokov neskôr mu syn vysvetľoval, že ich nezradili iba západné veľmoci, ale aj Stalin, ktorý podpísal tajnú zmluvu s Hitlerom, ale tomu už otec neveril; stále spo­mínal na to, ako s hlbokým ponížením a plačom vyprázdni­li bunkre, opustili hranice a vrátili sa domov, na Slovensko. Istý čas slúžil vraj na Bratislavskom hrade, kde boli maštale pre kone, ale jeho prevelili k spojárom. Jonáš si nevedel pred­staviť, že na Hrade boli kone v maštaliach - on si pamätal, že tam boli neskôr, v šesťdesiatych rokoch minulého tisícročia, reštaurácie a vinárne pre komunistov. Keď sa tam raz chceli ísť navečerať a popiť pár pohárov vína s kamarátmi po jed­nej vernisáži, maštaliar na nich zavolal esenbákov. Bolo to v tých zlatých šesťdesiatych rokoch, keď sa na chvíľu otvorili okná a začal sa mierny prievan a oni, naivní, ale plní odvahy, nádeje, ba i radosti zo života chceli tým maštaliarom vyznať lásku a pripiť si s nimi na večnuju pamjať. Dostali od esen­bákov takú nakladačku, že sa im zlomeniny a tržné rany na dušiach hojili nasledujúcich dvadsať rokov.
Vtedy si Jonáš povedal: „To vám nezabudnem. Za toto budete kruto pykať.” Nepovedal si to však iba sám pre seba, boli pri tom aj iní kamaráti, dobrí chlapci, ktorí uverili praž­skej, dubčekovskej jari - ba niektorí verili utópii o komunizme, ktorý sa dá zrelormovať zvnútra aj po 21. auguste 1968. Jonáš chcel vtedy odísť zo školy - študoval v 2. ročníku na VŠMU, ale jeho ročníkový vedúci Peter Balna ho uhovo­ril: „Dušan, nebláznite, to nemá zmysel, musíme proti nim bojovať zvnútra.” Peter dobojoval o necelý rok, vyhodili ho z katedry a o pár mesiacov zomrel na infarkt.
O čom sme to hovorili? Aha, o otcovi.
V 44. roku bol vraj otec spolu s dvoma východoslovenský­mi divíziami pripravený zúčastniť sa SNP, ale nejakým nedopatrením ich Nemci odzbrojili ešte pred Povstaním, a tak sa ocitol v nemeckom koncentráku. Na dôkaz toho, že neklame, ukázal Jonášovi pliešok s akýmisi vyrazenými číslami, hoci syn vôbec nepochyboval o pravdivosti otcových slov. Bolo mu ho ľúto, cítil, že otec sa za to (za čo?) hanbí a ktovie pre­čo sa chce komusi ospravedlňovať. Otec spomínal, že keď ich oslobodili Američania, stačil sa ešte zúčastniť 5. mája aspoň Českého národného povstania v Prahe. Čechov mal rád ako vlastných bratov; pred vojnou sa učil za krajčíra kdesi v juž­ných Čechách, a boli to vraj najkrajšie roky jeho života. Bol aj členom Sokola a s hrdosťou ukazoval fotky: najradšej mal bradlá a hrazdu. Po 45. roku vstúpil do Demokratickej stra­ny, založil si krajčírsku dielňu a začal „podnikať”. Mal troch tovarišov, darilo sa mu. Oveľa neskôr Jonášovi vysvetľoval: keby neboli prišli komunisti, dnes by si študoval v Paríži. Jo­náš mu veril, hoci sa mu zdalo byľku nepochopiteľné, že vte­dy bol už otec členom Komunistickej strany. Vstúpil tam vraj preto, aby on, Dušan, mohol študovať aspoň na Strednej vše­obecnovzdelávacej škole v Novom Meste. Jonáš veril otcovej verzii príbehu, ale podľa Agitátora to bolo celkcnn inak. Podľa Agitátora otec neposlúchol rozkaz, vôbec sa nevrátil na rodné Slovensko, ale s viacerými „hrdinami” dezertoval, prebehol na nepriateľskú stranu a cez vojnu bol v zahraničnom odboji, lie­tal na anglických lietadlách a bojoval proti Slovenskému štátu na strane komunistov. Agitátor bol ešte veľmi mladý, neskúse­ný, pochádzal z hlboko veriacej katolíckej rodiny nečudo, že sa pomalšie orientoval v politickej situácii a poplietol si Jonášovho otca s jeho švagrom, strýkom Emilom. Dušan nerozoznal ko­munizmus od fašizmu - mal iba štyri roky -, ale bol na strýka pyšný, nesmierne pyšný, že lietal na bojových lietadlách; naj­radšej sa hral s ich miniatúrnymi kópíami. Potom však začali vysielať v rádiu prenosy z akýchsi procesov a každú chvíľu hlá­sili, koľko zradcov ľudu už popravili, a vtedy Agitátor ponúkol strýkovi pomoc: prevedie ho cez hranice, ale musia cestovať až k rieke Morave. On pochádza z Devínskej Novej Vsi, pozná tam každý kúsok zeme a má „skvelé kontakty”. Ba nechcel za to ani peniaze, vraj nemajú žiadnu cenu, preto mu stačí iba nejaké zla­to a šperky. Dobre vedel, že dedo rozmýšľal rovnako; peniaze, ktoré ušetril počas vojny ako krčmár, aj s tými, ktoré dostal za rozpredaj inventáru, premenil na zlato, drahé kamene a rôzne brošne, prstene, retiazky a náušnice. Agitátor chcel všetko, ale dedo nepadol na hlavu; dal mu iba časť pokladu, zvyšok dosta­ne až po „úspešnej akcii”. Agitátor zúril, vyhrážal sa, ale dedo sa iba smial: „Zasran, ja som starý ruský legionár, takým ako ty som vykrúcal krky holými rukami.“ Agitátorovi nezostalo nič iné iba súhlasiť, a tak sa istého dňa vybrali so strýkom do De­vínskej Novej Vsi. Akcia sa zrejme podarila, lebo strýko sa nevrátil. Ale ani Agitátor sa nevrátil. Možno zdrhli spolu, utešoval dedo tetu Annu, manželku strýka Emila, bol to hochštapler, za to moje zlato bude mať „za kopečkami” celkom slušný začiatok. A možno ich oboch chytili, teta bola oveľa skeptickejšia. Uvidí­me, musíme trpezlivo čakať, tak veru.
Čakali. Na strýkov list - podľa dohovoru. A dočkali sa; onedlho prišli namiesto listu dvaja iní Agitátori v dlhých čiernych kožených kabátoch, s čiernymi klobúkmi, pýtali sa tety Anny: „Kde je váš manžel?”
„Neviem. Odišiel do roboty a viac sa nevrátil.“
Ukázali fotografiu a spýtali sa: „Je to váš manžel?” Teta sústredene pozerala na fotografiu, potom odmietavo pokrú­tila hlavou: „Nie, to nie je môj manžel, môj manžel žije.“
„Len ak by vstal z mŕtvych,” zarehotal sa tučný bulo a ukázal fotografiu Jonášovi: „Synak, je to tvoj strýko?” Jo­náš si zobral nezreteľnú fotku do oboch dlaní, na zemi, na brehu rieky ležal muž, ktorý sa podobal na všetkých strýkov, a nad ním stál chlap, ktorý sa podobal na všetkých Agitáto­rov. „Chlapček, že je to tvoj strýc?” povedal druhý Agitátor a láskavo ho pohladkal po hlave. „Priznaj sa a je to vyba­vené.” Dušan sedel v tej svojej zamrežovanej detskej klietke a márne sa pokúšal vyletieť a prehovoriť, stále iba koktal a nikto tomu nerozumel, ale v tej chvíli, ako zbadal tú fotografiu, niečo sa stalo: natiahol ruku k Agitátorovi a povedal svoje prvé slovo: „Daj.”
Mama sa rozplakala, zrejme od šťastia.
Chytila ho do náručia, vytiahla ho z klietky, bozkávala ho na čelo, na temeno, na oči: „Žije. Počujete? Duško žije.”
„Ako viete?”
„Hovorí.”
„Aj opice hovoria: Daj.”
„Dušanko, synček, prečo si až doteraz mlčal?” spýtala sa matka.
A Jonáš odvetil zreteľne, celou vetou: „Nebolo o čom ho­voriť.”
Prvý Agitátor sa usmial: „Milý chlapček.” A druhý si od­pľul: „Idiot.” Dušan súhlasne prikývol: „Idiot: Daj, daj, idiot.”
„Kto je pre teba idiot, zasran? Mám ti jednu jebnúť?”
„Prestaň, vidíš, že je to neškodný idiot,” chlácholivo po­hladkal prvého Agitátora druhý Agitátor.
„Idiot, neidiot, ale robí ze mna piču.”
Jonáš potešene zatlieskal dlaňami: „Piču, piču, daj piču.”
Zdalo sa, že Agitátori zabudli, prečo vlastne prišli. „Prečo sme sem vlastne prišli?” spýtali sa navzájom, takmer naraz.
„Fotka.”
„Aha, do piči, skoro som zabudol.” Chmatol Dušana za blond vlásky a strčil mu pred oči fotografiu: „Poznáš ho?”
„Daj.”
Agitátor bol byľku zmätený: „Čo chceš, do piči, čo chceš, čo ti mám dať?”
„Tata.”
Agitátori si uľahčene oddýchli, konečne to majú za sebou, zasran sa priznal.
„Tak to je tvoj tata?”
„Daj.”
Prvý povedal druhému: „Zapíš, priznal sa. Poznal tatu.”
Dušan pokrútil hlavou: „Neni tata. Daj.”
Pochopili: chce si strýka prezrieť zblízka, prosto, chce ho identifikovať. Už bolo neskoré popoludnie, aj hladní boli, aj vypiť bolo treba, nechceli sa zdržovať. Podali Jonášovi fotku, vlastne, iba mu ju požičali a spýtali sa: „Je to strýco?”
Dušan sa neunúval verbálnym priznaním: strčil si fot­ku do úst a s chuťou ju prežúval. Kým sa im ju podarilo za­chrániť - strkali mu špinavé smradľavé prsty do úst a šklbali kúsky papiera, mama s tetou sa smiali, až plakali; Agitáto­ri ich bili po ústach: „Kurvy, nerehocte sa, nemáme kópiu. Hajzel, vypľuj ten obrázok,” prosili Jonáša, ktorý si búchal päsťou po hrudi ako mladý orangutan a hovoril: „TATA TU.”
„Kúrva, prehltol ho, ten zasran prehltol vlastného strý­ca... a že idiot.”
„Idiot, idiot,” Dušan sa spokojne usmieval...


PublisherZjavenie

The revelation (English)

Let’s call him Dušan. Or Jonáš. His mum used to call him Duško, his father Dušan. Surname: Jonáš. After his father. The son is the bearer of the father’s surname, as we all know. His father was Michal, after Archangel Michael. His mother Mária, maiden name Bučková. It didn’t matter what they’d called him, after all, at a certain stage in his life he’d been a Buddhist; he’d believed in karma and reincarnation, although apparently he was christened a Lutheran. At least, that’s what he’d been told. Of course, he couldn’t be expected to remember that; after all, he’d only been eight days old.
The only thing he could remember was his first emotion: FEAR.
Yes, in the beginning was fear.
He spent his time in a cot with a metal frame that was painted white and had bars on either side made of rope, like the net in a football goal. It is a cage, but he is still small, weak and ailing; he can’t reach up to pull the side bars down and he can’t climb out, even though the cage is open at the top. He can’t fly out! He is only little and even if he managed to stand up and climb out of the cage, he couldn’t leave the house! From his cot he can see the windows and there are bars on the windows, too; iron bars close together.  When he was born this was a pub, but his grandfather got wind of nationalization. At first he wanted to burn it down, but others persuaded him not to. So he sold off the furnishings and converted the pub into a flat. They lived there with Aunt Anna and Uncle Emil.
Jonáš is alone and he knows that he has been locked in and someone is watching him. From time to time he notices an eye looking through the keyhole; a cold, blue eye that doesn’t move. Maybe it is made of glass, is artificial or dead, because it never blinks. Mummy is already at work; she’s a sales assistant in a nearby shop for miscellaneous goods called BUDÚCNOSŤ– THE FUTURE – and Granddad has gone to mow the meadow. He’s all alone here and uncomfortable – he’s wet himself again, but he must put up with it till lunchtime; he knows his mum will come and free him then and change his nappy. Yes, he must bear it in silence, because that eye is watching him and if he began to yell, to cry and beg for help, that dead eye would come to life, the door would open and Agitator would begin to make fun of him: “You’ve wet yourself again! You can’t even last out till lunchtime, you load of shit, are you never going to grow up to be a man?”
Their tenant – yes, they had a tenant and he said his name was NERO; they never discovered what his real name was… He was young, about twenty, I suppose, and he’d come with an agitprop group of equally young and enthusiastic benefactors, who had tried to persuade the backward villagers that a happy future awaited them in a cooperative farm, which is why among themselves they called him Agitator, but officially they addressed him as Comrade Nero, because that’s how he liked it. All the other agitators had left the village, as most of the stupid villagers were not yet ready for the future and refused to sign the application form, but Nero had stayed on. They had had to take him in as a tenant, even though he didn’t pay anything; they’d been ordered to by the Local National Committee, where Comrade Nero had his own office. When they asked him what he actually did, he replied good-naturedly: “I’m helping people on the road to Paradise.” And he did help them. Especially Jonáš’s uncle, but also his father, in fact. In 1938 his father was on the western border of the Czech Republic and to the day he died he claimed we shouldn’t have retreated. He was convinced the Germans wouldn’t have broken through the line; he said the bunkers were impenetrable and the vast majority of the soldiers defending them had been willing to die, but the Western Powers had betrayed them, claiming it was the lesser of two evils. Later, many years later, his son explained to him that it had not only been the Western Powers that betrayed them, but Stalin as well, because he’d signed a secret treaty with Hitler; but his father wouldn’t believe that. He kept recollecting how they’d vacated the bunkers, left the border and returned home to Slovakia deeply humiliated and in tears. He said he’d served for a while at Bratislava Castle, where there was a stable for horses, but they’d then transferred him to the Signals. Jonáš couldn’t imagine horses in stables at the castle - he remembered that later, in the 1960’s, there’d been restaurants and wine bars for communists. Once they’d wanted to have a meal there after a preview of an exhibition and a couple of glasses of wine with friends, but the stable keeper had called the police to throw them out. It was in those golden sixties, when the windows to the world had been opened for a while, causing a moderate draught and, naïve as they were and full of hope and daring, even joie de vivre, they’d wanted to show their love for the “stable keepers” and drink a toast with them to “vechnuyu pamyat”. They got such a beating up from the police that it took another twenty years for the injuries and wounds to their souls to heal.
On that occasion Jonáš had said to himself, “I won’t forget, you’ll pay dearly for that.” However, he didn’t keep it to himself; there were other friends there – good fellows who believed in Dubček’s Prague Spring – some of them even believed in the utopia of a communist system that could be reformed from within even after the 21st August 1968. At that time Jonáš had wanted to leave college – he was in his second year of studies at the Academy of Performing Arts, but his tutor, Peter Balna dissuaded him: “Dušan, don’t be silly, there’s no point. We must fight against them from inside! Peter was forced to abandon the struggle less than a year later, when he was thrown out of the department and a couple of months later he died of a heart attack. 
What were we talking about? Aha, about his father.
In 1944 his father, along with two east-Slovakian divisions, were said to have been prepared to participate in the Slovak National Uprising, but by some oversight they were disarmed by the Germans even before it began, and so he found himself in a German concentration camp. To prove he wasn’t lying, he showed Jonáš a metal strip with some numbers stamped on it, although his son did not doubt for a minute that his father was telling the truth. He felt sorry, sensing that his father was ashamed of that (of what?) and who knows why he wanted to excuse himself to anyone. His father mentioned that when they were liberated by the Americans, he’d at least managed to participate in the Czech National Uprising in Prague on 5th May. He loved the Czechs, regarding them as his own brothers; before the war he had done an apprenticeship as a tailor somewhere in the south of the Czech Republic and he claimed these were the best years of his life. He’d also been a member of the Sokol gymnastic society and he would proudly show his photos: the horizontal and parallel bars were his favourites. After 1945 he became a member of the Democratic Party, founded a tailoring workshop and began to “do business”. He had three assistants and he fared well. Much later he explained to Jonáš: “If the communists hadn’t come, you’d now be studying in Paris”. Jonáš believed him, although he found it rather hard to understand why his father was now a member of the Communist Party. Apparently, he’d joined so that he, Dušan, could at least study at the Secondary Grammar School in Nové Mesto. Jonáš believed his father’s version of the story, but according to Agitator, it was far from the truth. According to Agitator, his father had disobeyed orders and had not returned to his homeland, Slovakia, but had deserted with a number of “heroes”, gone over to the other side and during the war had been in the foreign resistance, flying English planes and fighting against the Slovak state on the side of the communists. Agitator was still quite young and inexperienced. Coming from a deeply religious Catholic family, it was no wonder he was slow to find his bearings in the political situation and confused Jonáš’s father with his brother-in-law, Uncle Emil. Dušan couldn’t tell communism from fascism – he was only four years old – but he was proud of his uncle, infinitely proud that he had flown in fighter planes and loved playing with miniature copies of them. However, the radio began to broadcast hearings from trials of some kind and kept announcing how many betrayers of the people had been executed, and it was then that Agitator offered to help Jonáš’s uncle - he’d get him across the border, but they’d have to travel to the River Morava. He himself was from the nearby village of Devínska Nová Ves; he knew every inch of ground there and had “excellent contacts”. He didn’t even want any money for it, saying money wasn’t worth anything, that’s why just some gold and jewels would do. He knew very well that Jonáš’s grandfather was of the same mind; he’d exchanged the money he’d saved as a publican during the war, together with what he’d got from the sale of the furnishings, for gold, precious stones and various brooches, rings, necklaces and earrings. Agitator wanted it all, but Granddad was no fool; he gave him only part of it, saying he’d get the rest only after the plan proved a success. Agitator was furious and hurled threats at him, but Granddad only laughed, “I’m an old Russian legionnaire - I’ve wrung the necks of brats like you with my bare hands!” There was nothing the Agitator could do but agree, and so one day he and Uncle set out for Devínska Nová Ves. The plan seemed to have succeeded, because Uncle did not come back. But neither did Agitator. Maybe they’ve escaped together, Granddad comforted Aunt Anna, Uncle Emil’s wife; he was a crook, that gold of mine would give him a very good start “over the hills and far away”. And maybe they’ve caught both of them – Aunt Anna was much more sceptical. We’ll see, we must wait patiently, that’s what we must do.
They waited. For Uncle’s letter – as agreed. And they didn’t have to wait long. Instead of a letter, two different Agitators in long black leather coats arrived and asked Aunt Anna, “Where’s your husband?”
“I don’t know. He left for work and he didn’t come back.”
They showed her a photograph and asked, “Is this your husband?” Auntie stared at the photograph and then shook her head, “No, that’s not my husband, my husband is alive.”
“Only if he’s risen from the dead,” guffawed the fat goon and showed Jonáš the photo. “Is this your uncle, sonny?” Jonáš took the blurred photo in both hands; there was a man lying on a river bank who looked like all uncles and over him stood a man who looked like all Agitators.
“Is this your uncle, boy?” the second Agitator said, gently stroking his head. “Admit it and we’ll have done with it.” Dušan used to sit in that barred cot of his and try in vain to fly out of it and speak up, but all he could do was to stammer and no one could understand him, but the moment he caught sight of that photograph, something happened: he stretched out his hand towards the Agitator and uttered his first word: “Gimme.”
His mother burst into tears, clearly from happiness.
She hugged him and lifted him out of his cage, kissed his forehead, the back of the neck and eyes, “He’s alive. Do you hear? Duško’s alive.”
“How do you know?”
“He can speak.”
“Even monkeys can say “Gimme”.
“Dušanko, my little son, why haven’t you said anything before?” his mother asked.
And Jonáš replied clearly, in a whole sentence, “There wasn’t anything to say.”
The first Agitator smiled, “What a dear little boy.” The second Agitator spat: “Idiot”. Dušan nodded in agreement, “Idiot. Gimme, give, idiot.”
“Who are you calling an idiot, you little brat? D’ye want me to clobber you one?”
“Leave off, you can see he’s a harmless idiot,” the second Agitator tried to calm him down.
“Idiot or not, he’s making a fucking fool of me.”
Jonáš clapped his hands in delight, “Fucking fool, fucking fool, gimme fucking fool.”
It seemed the Agitators had quite forgotten why they had come.
“What did we come for?” they asked each other, almost simultaneously.
“The photo.”
“Aha, fuck it, I’d almost forgotten.” He grabbed Dušan by his blond hair and thrust the photograph at him.
“Do you know him?”
“Gimme.”
The Agitator was a trifle confused, “What do you fucking want, what do you want, what do you want me to give you?”
“Daddy.”
The Agitator breathed a sigh of relief, at last they’d got it over, the brat had confessed.
“So that’s your daddy?”
“Gimme.”
The first said to the second, “Write that down. He confessed. He recognised his daddy.”
Dušan shook his head, “Not daddy. Gimme.”
They understood. He wanted to have a closer look at his uncle, in short, he wanted to identify him. It was already late afternoon, they were hungry and they could do with a drink, they didn’t want to hang around. So they handed Jonáš the photo –  only lent it to him in fact – and they asked, “Is that your uncle?”
Dušan didn’t bother with a verbal confession; he stuffed the photo into his mouth and chewed it with relish. Before they could rescue it – poking their stinking filthy fingers into his mouth and pulling out scraps of paper – his mother and aunt had laughed themselves to tears. The Agitators slapped their faces, “Don’t laugh, you bitches, we haven’t got another copy. Spit it out, you blighter,” they begged Jonáš, who was beating his chest with his fist like a young orang-utan, declaring “DADDY HERE!”
“Shit, he’s swallowed it. The brat has swallowed his own uncle... Who said he’s an idiot?”
“Idiot, idiot,” Dušan smiled with satisfaction.



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