wo l f at t h e d o o r

wo l f at t h e d o o r

a novel by

Tr a v i s J e p p e s e n

twisted spoon press

prague • 2007
 Copyright © 2007 by Travis Jeppesen

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American

Copyright Conventions. This book, or parts thereof, may not be
used or reproduced in any form, except in the context of reviews,
without written permission from the publisher.

isbn 978-80-86264-29-5
wo l f at t h e d o o r
I
T
hey brought me here today, to the cottage by
the cemetery. That’s putting it badly. Perhaps.
Because I asked to be brought here, to this
cottage on the edge of the village, right by the cemetery.
That way, they won’t have far to carry me when I go.
The doctor assures me it won’t be too long. He gave
me an exact estimate, but I’ve chosen to forget it. Here
in the village, far from the land of my birth, I will live
out my final days. Also a word of advice from the doc-
tor: to get as far outside the city as possible. Into the
mountains, where the air is fresh, where there is noth-
ing. Fresher. Than the city air. Especially in summer.
That muggy haze, the urban environment, the way it
stifles its inhabitants and very few are even aware. It’s
killing them, but they choose not to acknowledge. The
doctor has given me explicit instructions, the care I am
supposed to take of my aging body in order to prolong

9
my life. If all else fails, a friend has given me pills. I
will only take them in an emergency. Or for relief.
Should I encounter pain, extreme pain that is not quite
extreme enough to necessitate taking all of them. Only
I can be the judge of that; there is no one else here.
Vojtech the gravedigger will come once or twice a week
to run errands. I am totally unable to leave the house
on my own. It is absolutely forbidden, the doctor said,
to exert myself in any way. I will simply have to rely
on the assistance of others. There are no others. There
are some, but I have no desire to come into contact
with any of these disgusting villagers. I saw them
through the car window as we were driving through the
village, and they’re all insane, idiots and alcoholics,
inbred morons and gypsy scum. The road leading to the
house in particular is frightening. It is filled with sheep.
There’s the cemetery on one side, sheep on the other.
No, that’s not right. Sheep in the beginning, cemetery
in the middle, my house on the end. There are other
houses, too, of course. Although you can’t really call
them houses because they are actually cottages, mine
included. With those repulsive things walking around
everywhere you look — what are they called? Hens?
Chickens? Cocks? — those things, and most of them
are black. The ones that are not black are usually red.
Red or orange. Depending on the way you wish to see
it. My cottage is the last one, at the end of the street.

10
You can see other cottages from the window. I must not
go out there, though. The weather kills me. I actually
feel all right today. Well, almost. The ulcer on my
tongue is less inflamed, probably because I’ve done
what the doctor said and eliminated all salt from my
diet. That’s just today. Change of circumstances as
well, perhaps, what with leaving the city behind and all.
I used to love it there. I lived there my entire life. But
not anymore. I’ll never go back there again. I’ll never
hear again its first breaths in the morning, its final
gasps when I switch off the lamp at night. I am glad.
It is the city that did this to me in the first place, that’s
made me sick. The city deserves to die, not me. Now
I’ve gone away, into the mountains, to live out my final
days. I’ve brought very little with me. I was told in
advance that it wouldn’t be necessary, that the cottage
would come equipped. The agent asked me whether
I’d be buying or renting. I thought about it and burst
out laughing. Pretty soon I had crossed the threshold
and was unable to stop for quite a while. Another
symptom of the illness; you gradually begin to lose
control over your emotions. Until, they say, your emo-
tions finally consume you. But I knew with this
laughter, even while I was laughing, that it wouldn’t
consume me; not only would it not manage to con-
sume me, but that I had to cut it out if I wanted to do
this, to rent or buy this cabin, or cottage, whatever it’s

11
called . . . Here it comes again, the laughter. If I were
to inhabit this cottage, thus leave the city behind, thus
prolong my life for a bit longer than I was perhaps
destined to live, I didn’t want to do anything to let the
agent suspect he was dealing with a sick or deranged
person or possibly a lunatic, because if he were to have
such a thought, that would quite possibly put an end
to the transaction altogether. And yet I could not con-
trol the laughter, and so it was I told him, I’m sorry I’ve
had quite an extraordinary day or some such bullshit
that would nullify his concerns, effectively making me
sound more healthy and infinitely more sophisticated
than I actually am, thus squashing the agent’s previous
suspicions. Oh the trouble I had to go through to rent
this cottage. Of course I decided to rent the cottage, the
joke being that I would have no one to leave it to after
I’m gone. I mean I have plenty of money, always have
and always will, but what good would it do to make
such a gigantic purchase of something I know I will only
own temporarily, for a short while, until my expiration
date arrives? And what confusion it would cause after
I’m gone, knowing there is no one to leave it to. Give
it to charity? They’re all criminals. They would squan-
der it immediately, sell it off for an exorbitant sum,
twice the amount it’s worth, then pad their pockets
with it. No, fuck that, I told him I would rent it. For
how long? he asked. Without giving the exact reason,

12
I told him I could not tell him that. He said okay, my
signature on a paper, here I am.
It’s getting dark outside. I just walked to the win-
dow. A streetlight went on as I sat here writing this.
They actually have those. I hadn’t noticed it before.
It’s somehow reassuring. A light in the darkness. A
child’s voice. I shut the door.
A nice drink would do now. Bring out the list, what
I’m allowed to drink. There are certain rules accom-
panying practically every facet of life now. Certain
behaviors are regulated, others free. Freer, I should say.
Than the others, of course. I must never take a shower
at night. That’s a bad example. It has to do with the
position of the shower in the cottage. I went through
all this with the doctor before I came out here. We sat
in his office with a floorplan of the cottage and wrote
it all out. Number 605. That’s the number of the cot-
tage. It is owned by a nice couple, middle-aged, both
of them engineers I remember the agent telling me.
They live in the next village. They want to get rid of it
because they don’t come here anymore. Instead, they
got me, tantamount to inheriting another problem.
I just had a shower. Feel so much better now. A
noise outside; someone chopping wood nearby. Turn off
that television, I say aloud. There’s no one here.
Soap wasn’t the only thing I brought with me.
There’s also the notebook and the pen. Some clothes.

13
My medication. Food to last a few days, until Vojtech
comes. I brought very little, in fact. Certainly no dis-
tractions, nothing to remind me of art — mine or
anyone else’s for that matter. Although the latter never
really existed for me. To think of art in any way is to
suicide. The doctor said that continuing would only
lead to rapid advancement of the already impending
deterioration. I will think of other things while I am
here, try to concentrate on staying well. Not everyone
can see this as making as much sense as I do. That is
something one must come to grips with. Nibble some
food, spit it out; it just touched the ulcer. I felt it. So I
scream. To express my pain and anguish. Then I real-
ize I’ve made a mistake. I must never express my pain
and anguish, under any circumstance whatsoever, for
to do so is to alert the illness of my awareness of it,
which would only encourage it. Best to stifle the
screams and sobs altogether, lest they invite more pain
and further deterioration. But the burning won’t stop.
Eyes water, pen shakes in hand. A shot of something
strong would help. Don’t want to start on the pills yet,
it’s only the first day, that would be beside the point.
I open the refrigerator, forget, no, then the freezer
door, yes, that’s where I put it, my hand on the bottle
to see if it’s cold yet. It is. It’s had plenty of time to
freeze. Into a shotglass and immediately down my
throat, making sure it passes the ulcer on its way.

14
There there. Instant relief. Yet mild. No more food
today.
Although there’s plenty of light, more than there
ever was in my apartment in the city, I light a candle,
red. It was here or maybe I brought it with me, it’s too
late now to start remembering details. The reason why
food is such a temptation is because it’s spread all
around me. I must make it disappear to avoid tortur-
ing myself.
There, that’s better. Now all temptation is gone,
gone to the toilet. One by one I open each of the pack-
ages, plop once and flush. In the case of the candy bars
especially. In the case of the bread and potato chips,
well that’s a different story. The potato chips fell in
with a clutter and floated on the surface until more
fell on top and drowned them. But it was all so fast the
way it happened, as soon as the toilet had settled down
and recovered from the last flush I pulled the thing up
again, which caused this latest batch of potato chips to
be whisked away to some other land beyond the sun I
suppose. Actually I don’t want to dwell on it that
much. I don’t know where they’ll end up truthfully
and I don’t feel the urgent need to know. I must avoid
these stressful situations if I am to live beyond the
weekend. Not everyone will agree. They’re not in my
place now are they. That whole thing about the dead
animals coming round to save me. Horrible, but there

15
was actually a head mounted to the wall when I initially
walked in here, I took it down immediately. These
fucking people. But I get the mentality, even though I
don’t want to. If they were here with me right now,
they’d probably question my sanity for flushing all that
food down the toilet, for letting it go to waste, as
they’d probably say. What they don’t know is that food
could’ve killed me. I felt it in my jaw, and the shot
helped. Pretty soon it will happen again. But I’m not
an alcoholic. I am anything but that. Time to take a pill.
If I hadn’t flushed the food, I would have been
tempted to eat it. And eating it now would have caused
me even more pain. That’s okay. I don’t need to eat.
Vojtech will be here in a few days. I don’t know when
exactly, but soon enough. I’ll hold out till then.
Someone’s outside chopping wood. Pretty soon they’ll
start a fire. (The scent.) They’ll set the wood on fire.
The fire’s on fire. I laugh myself into a fit of hysterics.
I don’t know what I’m doing here anymore. Wait I just
got here.
Now I want to burn something. Search for some
wood. I was told there’s a place for fires in the front
yard. But I’m not allowed to go out there. Have to set-
tle for the stove. The oven. I have all of that here. But
the oven, I’ve looked at it and it’s by far more complex
than anything I’ve dealt with before. It’s the old-fash-
ioned kind clearly. I’m not so old-fashioned. I’m so

16
modern. I wasn’t around back then. Have to have
Vojtech explain it for me.
Tea I can have. No, I’m supposed to. I mean a cer-
tain kind I’ve been prescribed for the illness, to drink
each day after one in the afternoon but before supper.
It must brew for at least ten minutes and has a repul-
sive, bitter taste. After drinking it, you can’t taste
anything for a few hours, which somehow makes the
afternoon go faster, probably because it eliminates yet
another distraction, we don’t typically view taste as a
distraction. It is one. See, illness teaches us things we
mightn’t discover otherwise. The ulcer is one side
effect. This is what the doctor told me when I called
him up asking for an explanation. Of course he didn’t
bother warning me about this before. Had he taken
the trouble to warn me, I probably would’ve never
bothered with the tea. Then I’d be dead already. I’ve
just realized this as I take the first sip. The other pos-
sible side effect is cerebral infection. But thank god
that hasn’t happened. Yet. The tea tastes like a dead
tree. What would happen to me if cerebral infection
actually kicked in? I’d become a vegetable, but I’d still
be alive. This is the brilliant logic of the medical estab-
lishment. Which is what initially led me to seek a
second opinion. And a third. Then a fourth. Then,
finally, a fifth. And they all said the same thing. The
same diagnosis. So instead of dismissing them all as

17
idiots, something I should have done, I returned to the
first doctor in order to commence treatment — or to
explore treatment options, to put it in his words, the
words of the medical establishment. As though I would
be allowed some choice in the matter. It’s heating up
in here. Maybe it’s the tea. No, I go to the heater. It’s
definitely that. Funny because the tea actually makes
the ulcer feel numb — but only when I’m drinking it.
As soon as I’m finished, the ulcer recommences burn-
ing. It’s on the left side, right beneath the tongue, near
the jaw, the gums. At least that’s what it feels like. I
can’t locate it exactly. I’ve tried, I’ve spent hours in
front of the mirror with my mouth held open with my
index finger making all kinds of absurd retarded faces.
And yet I cannot locate the source of this intense pain.
It will only get worse. I remember back when I was a
smoker and I used to get cold sores. When I had a cig-
arette they stopped hurting, but when I finished it hurt
even worse. It’s kind of the same with this tea. But
now I know what helps — what’s in the bottle. I
finished the tea, so now it’s time for my afternoon nap.
No, the ulcer is on my vocal cords, I’ve decided.
That is why I cannot locate it. Force some more food
down my throat, bread the only thing left, pain, then
another shot to defeat the pain. I just found a knife.

18
I was awoken this afternoon by the noise outside. I
didn’t know where I was at first. But I figured it out
pretty quick. The noise again. That fissure of normalcy
that attempts to define us all, the natural side effect of
our daily endeavors. The only option left was to get as
drunk as possible. Out of frustration, of course. The
noise would only continue throughout the day. And
it’s Saturday. What could it mean. The noise. Shall I
attempt to describe it. Later.
This morning, or this afternoon, I am used to rising
in the afternoon, that is when I rise. But I was awoken
before I wanted to get up, the windows were open
because it was warm when I went to bed last night. It
was the rooster, the rooster cawing that woke me, or
if not the rooster the saw. An electric one, of course,
a handsaw I imagined it to be, with a round blade, I
could tell by the sound. It was loud, and because it
woke me up, I instantly wanted to kill whoever was
operating it. It wasn’t just once, it was the repetition
of it that eventually roused me. Drunk, now I could care
less, but it ruined my day, if it was ever my day to
begin with. It certainly wasn’t meant to be someone
else’s day, and yet it wasn’t mine either. It was stolen
from me, the rooster’s caw and the handsaw. Of course
the rooster is something I will just have to get used to
now won’t I, there’s nothing I can do about that.
Although I must decide what exactly I will call those

19
repulsive things, for they are everywhere, and I know
not what they are. When I say I know not what they
are, that is a lie, for of course I know what it is they
are, I just do not have the name for it. We went through
this yesterday. Are they cocks are they hens are they
chickens. I like rooster. So I will call them roosters.
The rooster’s caw and the obnoxious buzz of the
handsaw. This is the cacophonous concert I awoke to
today, and I immediately wanted to find and murder
the perpetrators. Had I been able to leave my cottage
I would have, but I am not able to and so I resigned
myself to the condition of being awake. I hardly felt
it, but still, I was there. Which is more than can be
said for most, more than most can say. At least I got
up in time to take my tea. The ulcer it somehow felt
better today, at least at first. It hurt later when I tried
food, but at least it was expected this time, and so it
didn’t hurt as bad. The stuff in the bottle seems to
help. My overall condition, I mean. The ulcer as well.
You insane moron, I yelled at the rooster. You are loud
and I am here. Followed by laughter, uncontrolled and
uncontrollable laughter. Step out onto the porch. No,
that was a mistake. Through the window looking. See
if I can find the sources. It is a concert, really. The saw,
followed by the rooster, as though the one were
responding to the other. But no, cannot find either one.
Stop aestheticizing. I look through every window, and

20
nothing. Nothing underlined twice. It has to come to
define this. Maybe another shot. Make you feel better.
After the tea. Shortness of breath accompanies every
gesture. That is why I don’t look so hard.
Tea time. The regulation of my dehydration, I’ve
taken to calling it. To amuse myself. In spite of the
pain. I listened closer to take it all in. Maybe even open
a window . . . No. What I hear out there is music. I can’t
remember the name of the composer or the symphony.
The toilsome verbiage that comes out on a Sunday.
Marry myself off to the wind, but oh not yet. Will it
be there to inspect the burdens? Tomorrow Vojtech
comes. Or so it’s been arranged. Whether or not he’ll
actually show is anyone’s guess. I will make a list of
things I need.
The house I used to live in before, the one in the city,
I blew that one up before I came out here. With every-
thing, all my sculptures inside. It wasn’t in the city
proper, just beyond the limits. Except for the ones that
had been sold and are thus elsewhere. But those aren’t
very many. I had to sell the sculptures, blow up the
house. There was no other way. We only live once, and
I couldn’t bear the thought of some other persons liv-
ing on top of my living stains. Of polluting the
remnants of my former existence with their own. Best
to destroy those remnants, eliminate every trace that
might lead them to some unpleasant conclusion. The

21
cawing has dissipated, so has the sawing. Which leaves
only the music. Somewhere else entirely. I am. If I look
hard enough, I can see the cemetery. Not very well,
for there is a tree blocking it. I must tell Vojtech to
remove the tree immediately. I must have a clear view
of my destiny at all times. That is the reason I came out
here, after all.
Now it’s the aftermath of the same. The tea grows
increasingly bitter as the days wear on. The first time
I tasted it, I thought I’d puke. But that too has become
routine now. And because it is Sunday we will have
the mustard. With the mustard, there is a certain
amount of freedom, because although I must always
take the mustard on Sunday, I am permitted to eat it
anytime I please, morning evening afternoon, as long
as I take it at least once on Sunday. Of course it prob-
ably wouldn’t be wise to take it too often, to eat an
entire bottle without any bread for instance. That
would only lead to problems, to potential tragedy. The
skin would turn yellow, even yellower than it’s already
become. And I would never take the mustard in the
morning either, not because I’m incontinent (yet), but
because I do not get out of bed in the morning, only
in the afternoon, early in the afternoon. (Or sometimes
not at all.) This has nothing to do with the illness, it
has been this way for as long as I can remember, this
habit, ingrained in me since childhood, or even before,

22
rooted in infancy or perhaps even wombhood or per-
haps even before that, when I was but a tiny bit of
sperm floating somewhere in my father’s sac, asleep
till noon, never really coming alive until evening fell on
the world, blinding its inhabitants to the conceit of
knowing. There are some books here I found in a
drawer yesterday as I was getting settled. Vassilovsky’s
The Emotional Conditioning of the Slavs is one of
them. The previous inhabitant of the house was an
anthropologist I remember someone, the agent proba-
bly, telling me. He left all these wretched plants
behind. They are now dying all over the porch. Me, I
gave up reading long ago, once I discovered language
was corrupting my art. I once regarded language as my
muse, but not anymore. Now I realize that language is
a whore.
Just sat down on the toilet. Nothing solid ever
comes out anymore. Not since childhood, at least. The
rooster caws at odd moments in the day. As though to
let us all know it’s still out there, existing. I still can’t
find it when I rush to the window. Eventually I’ll learn
to give up. It always takes a while, though. Should I
describe the hill here, next to the cottage. The ceme-
tery is on a hill, you see, overlooking the village. Of
course the cottage is fenced off from the cemetery. The
hill descends and ends with the cottage. I keep imag-
ining reindeer falling down the hill, crushing the

23
cottage. And I naturally wouldn’t be alert enough to
notice. Not strong enough to catch them either. A dog
barks and I’m all alone. I see a man in an orange jacket
walking among the crows. Get away from the window
before he sees me. There, there. A welt on my leg I just
noticed. Hurts to touch it, itches when I don’t touch it.
Maybe the answer is to pour some tea on it. Ah, there.
Feels so much better now, the pain. Maybe pouring
the tea over my head would cure me. No. There is no
cure for this illness. The doctor said so, all five of
them. Though I don’t know what for. That’s something
I’ve always wondered about, ever since the diagnosis,
namely: Why the diagnosis? Better, more polite at least,
to have remained silent on the whole affair. Like
mother used to say. The old bitch. If she were still
alive, she would be glad I’m not. Disaffected by nature
she was, until time fell apart in her head. You could
never expect much by way of conversation. Nobody else
could either. These goddamn lamps I keep hitting my
head on them. Have to get Vojtech to make the ceiling
higher. Never could understand the reasoning behind
her facile explanations. She didn’t know what to do
with herself either, I think, and that’s what finally did
her in. Outside, a dog barks at the sheep. They just
stare. I wonder if sheep have emotions. I remember I
once did. I forget which ones, though. Another moun-
tain revealed itself today. The clouds, the fog got out

24
of the way. Only to go back again once the sun got
tired of being up in the sky. It fell down, I hit my head
once again on the lamp, and the light bulb shattered.
It feels so nice to kill the sun. All is dark now. The
rawness of teddy bears is all over the place; Vojtech
comes tomorrow.

25
I must remember to never again drink the water from
the sink here. I tried it this morning (my term for early
afternoon) when I needed to take a pill. It had a hor-
rible chalky consistency that clung to my throat in the
aftermath. Of course it makes sense, even though we’re
in the mountains there’s no escaping the pollution. The
water is polluted probably owing to the paper factory
in the next town, whose existence I was made aware
of due to the fact that we had to drive past it in order
to get here. What is that awful smell, I asked the driver.
A scent of rotting sulfur leaking out of a corpse’s
freshly decomposed crevices. Or worse. Don’t worry,
he assured me, you’ll be far from it all in a bit. The peo-
ple who live in the town — or is it a village — must
get used to it over time, the way the wind blows. After
two weeks, I imagine, their senses no longer register the
noxious odor. But are they able to smell anything else
then, I wonder. Probably the same with the water.
Living here all their lives, they come to believe that
this is how water tastes in its natural state, go on
believing that until it kills them. And even when they’re
dead, they still believe it’s all fine, the air, the water,
which has even leaked into and corroded the very soil
their bodies are now rotting in. I should have figured
the water would be foul, but coming from the city,
where the water is supposed to be clean, at least this
is what we are led to believe, that they have developed

26
such sophisticated technologies for cleansing the tap
water so as to avoid killing us all, actually no, who
can possibly know, it could be that the city water is
just as foul as the country water only we are each, the
city dweller and the villager, led to believe otherwise,
so that if a villager were to go to the city and taste the
water there, he or she would revile the taste and believe
as I believed this morning or to be absolutely precise
this early afternoon that the water is foul. What way
do we have of knowing the truth, the truth is we don’t,
so we must believe we are all being poisoned, that is
the only option, that drinking water can and will lead
to our collective demise as a species. The only reason
I drank the tap water to begin with is because I’d made
the mistake of leaving the carbonated out. So it had
gone flat. When I drank it this morning, it tasted like
a greasy pickle. Which made me gag and subsequently
dry heave. I would have vomited, had there been any-
thing in there to throw up. The carbonated water I had
brought with me because the green syrup I have to take
every afternoon at 3 has the unpleasant side effect of
gas. For three hours afterwards, I’m farting my ass off,
pfffffrrrp, and the carbonated seems to aid the process
greatly. At least the farting lets me know that my
insides are still working. They won’t forever.
They just made an announcement on the intercom
in the village. Although or maybe because of the fact

27
that it echoed through the mountains, I was unable to
decipher it. Perhaps it concerned the water, that we
should by no means drink it unless we want to die; it’s
raining again. Then again, it hasn’t really let up since
I arrived here. It will drown us all one day. We will
have to climb to the top of the mountain. Not me. I’ll
let the nasty waters take me. I won’t take them. The
announcement was preceded by music. Some gay old
tune everyone had forgotten. Until now. Now they’ve
been reminded. Along with the water. Whatever was
supposedly said. I don’t want to hear any announce-
ments. But I wonder if boiling it does any good. If not,
the tea will poison me soon. If it hasn’t already.
Perhaps I was never alive to begin with. The villagers
here, they’re very nice. They slaughter their chickens
behind closed doors. Actually they frighten me. Not that
I understand them any better than I did the city
dwellers. Hitchhikers: A Cultural History. That’s
another book the anthropologist left behind. The way
they walk among the chickens, or are they roosters,
swinging their weapons of mass destruction to and fro.
There’s an ax in the corridor in case they try to come
in here seeking revenge, for what I don’t know. The
cock caws at odd times throughout the day. Have I
already mentioned the water? Vojtech scheduled to
arrive today. Or maybe it’s tomorrow. Can’t remem-
ber. Doesn’t matter, can never tell the difference

28
between the two anyway. I hope I recognize him,
though, because I’ve never seen him before. He’s
handed down from the last inhabitant of the cottage,
also an invalid. By that I mean the inhabitant was an
invalid, not the cottage. Although it is quite possible
that the cottage is an invalid as well. I must have him
fix the light here, the one in the main room. I broke it
some time, yesterday. Although I defined him previ-
ously as an anthropologist, I forgot to mention that
he was also an invalid. One can be more than one
thing; in his case, he was two; but in that case, we can
still refer to him as one, or has he now become two? I
myself am a subtracted individual, for I was once
something else, now I am one thing only. Or perhaps
I have gained in significance. No, for I have lost that
which I once was. I have been reduced to a singular pos-
sibility of being. That I understand. Not much else.
Chicken in the front yard. White. Or is it a cock. If
Vojtech comes in time, I will have him chop its head
off. What am I to do meanwhile. Must solve the water
problem. One solution that never occurred to me until
now is to fry it. That might do the trick. Grease the
frying pan up. Before I do this, I must vomit. Which
spews forth yet another idea. Two frying pans, one for
vomit the other for water. One is for the anthropolo-
gist, the other for the invalid. But we will then have to
decide which identity to assign to which. Or maybe

29
it’s the same as never. For it would seem transparent
at first (not really) that the water would serve for
anthropology. Invalidity being naturally associated
with vomit. The words invalidity and vomit even have
a similar sound, mainly owing to the v’s and t’s, but also
to the i’s, which we must never forget. For i is also the
first letter of identity, while anthropology and water
don’t sound alike at all. But there is very little to link
anthropology with water, and so we will have to give
it over to the vomit, leaving the water to coincide with
the invalid. The invalid drinks water, and expels it via
the process of vomiting, then fries both. But if the self-
same invalid is or was an anthropologist, well, that is
when we run into trouble. Yet an anthropologist may
also drink water and vomit, but not if he is an invalid.
Wait that doesn’t sound right. Because anthropology has
long since been invalidated as an intellectual subject,
leaving neither water nor vomit to fare much better in
the harried realm of discourse. Turning on the stove,
however, eliminates both problems, and a faint crackle
is heard to begin the whole sordid practice, which is
bound to end in failure anyway. Life is like that some-
times. But I’ve forgotten what my point was to begin
with. Vojtech. He’s lived here in the village his whole
life. He works as a gravedigger in the cemetery.
Anyway, I hate television. I will tell him to remove it
when he comes here. I can’t pass by the light in either

30
room without hitting my head on it. It is just some-
thing I’ll have to get used to, hitting my head. The
ceiling in the main room is only two feet above my
head. In the kitchen, it is only slightly higher. I do not
understand this. There is an attic of course, but I will
never see it, its entrance is outside, at the front of the
house. The steps leading up to it climax with one of
those old-fashioned things. Then there’s the door, per-
manently locked. My entrance is on the side of the
house. Although really it is only Vojtech’s entrance,
my exit. Vojtech may exit as well, but he may also
enter. On certain days, of course. I cannot enter on
certain days, because I cannot exit on certain days. Or
ever, for that matter. I am always inside and I will
never get any better. Something is burning out there.
I must have fallen asleep in the middle of that last
thought. It happens sometimes, or so I’m told. Back
when there was someone to tell. My head on the table,
I’ve awoken to find nothing’s happened. That is to say
Vojtech is still not here. No anxiety over that one,
though. It all makes perfect sense: he’s an invalid. They
warned me about it ahead of time. Not an invalid in
the same sense as I. For if he were the same sort of
invalid, there would be no point, he would be unable
to leave his cottage, being allergic to the sun as I in
fact am allergic to the sun, we would invalidate each
other. But no, in fact. Vojtech is what they used to call

31
a deaf-mute. I have no idea what it is they call them
nowadays, but it used to be deaf-mute. It is quite pos-
sible that they now call them something else. I don’t
want him to come today, I’ve decided. I want something
else. I don’t know what though. So he’ll probably come.

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