A Hot Afternoon
A heat wave, the likes of which even the old couldn’t remember, had been going on for three days. There was a proliferation of heat strokes, dizzy spells and heat-induced blood pressure drops, leading to unconsciousness. People sought water, but more than that, they sought shade. Shade, shade, shade! The sun was beating down on their heads, and the general level of irritation was rising.
I left the swimming pool around three. Granted, one could hardly call the mass masturbation by any old puddle ‘swimming’. The water in the pool was warm, dirty and smelt foul; swimming was out of the question since there was no room to spread one’s arms or legs. Hundreds of sweaty bodies with unhealthy, droopy, red skin that looked as though it had been broiled were crowded on the yellow burnt grass around the pool. Only a few people had a nice brown tan; the sun had taken most of us by surprise. Before going out I drank my fill of water from the fire hydrant; it was nice and cold.
I walked through the desolate town, here and there running into some poor sod who for some reason or another hadn’t got off the filthy streets; heat billowed up to people’s knees over the melting asphalt pavements, it radiated from the cobblestones, the concrete, the walls of buildings, and the gleaming metal of cars and trams. Those of us who were dragging by the walls which provided scant shade, who were having chance encounters when most people had left the streets, felt like members of a sect, united by our common misery; we smiled at each other with sympathy.
I didn’t know where to go. People who can take afternoon naps are lucky, I thought, it’s easy for them to wait for nightfall. Perhaps I could find a not-too-crowded coffee shop with working fans. At least I could still enjoy a cigarette. I pulled out my pack of Marice; it was empty. As luck would have it, I spotted a pub.
I walked up the stone steps from the street to the pub’s outdoor seating area covered in white pebbles; they sparkled in the sun. In the shade of old chestnut trees, the tables were packed. Each table was laden with beer; everyone had at least two glasses in front of him.
As I stepped into the pub, stench joined the heat. All the tables inside were taken as well. Everyone was drinking beer. As if there was an outbreak of beer fever. They must have given up, I thought as I looked at the sleepy, dull faces of the men who were apathetically filling themselves with the stupefying liquid. It must have been their substitute for tranquilizers. I stood at the end of the long line at the bar. It moved pretty well, because a man in a wet white smock did nothing but pour beer, while a woman next to him took the money. I wasn’t thirsty, and I had zero desire for beer. It would put me to sleep, dull my senses and make me sweat more. I just wanted to buy cigarettes quickly and get out.
My turn came, but before I had a chance to say which cigarettes I wanted, a beer with foam spilling over the sides appeared in front of me.
‘Unfiltered Marice,’ I said.
‘Marice and beer,’ the bartender said to the cashier, and with an automatic movement he pushed another beer in front of the next person in line.
‘No, not the beer,’ I said.
The bartender looked up, taken aback, offended, and his eyes shot a hostile question at me: What do you think you’re doing?
‘Just the Marice,’ I said in a timid voice.
‘Marice and beer,’ the bartender reiterated, unwavering.
The woman handed me the cigarettes. I paid with a ten-crown bill. I handed it to her, but the bartender yanked it out of her hand and took over. He spent a moment rifling through change. I got the impression that he shorted me. I counted, and sure enough, I was missing three crowns.
‘A hundred per cent markup,’ I said.
‘What are you talking about? Marice and beer, that’s seven crowns,’ said the bartender.
‘But I don’t want the beer.’
Irritated rumbling and an occasional swearword came from behind. I was holding up the line. Obstructing smooth operation. The bartender had a triumphant smile as he pointed a finger at me, and in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, he pronounced his accusation: ‘It’s him, he doesn’t want beer.’
For a moment, the whole pub seemed paralysed by the affront. It’s him, it’s him, he doesn’t want beer, he doesn’t want beer—the words carried from one table to the next, and the spark jumped all the way outside. They all came out of their stupor, and reawakened they watched my every move. I was at a loss, so I decided to have a cigarette to stall for time. Before taking off the wrapper, I noticed the label—filtered. They were Marice all right, but I smoked unfiltered. I handed back the unopened box.
‘These are filtered, but I asked for unfiltered.’
The bartender turned red, and he was so angry that his voice cracked. ‘Damn it,’ he swore, ‘we don’t have unfiltered.’
I looked around in bewilderment, as if to ask for help. But all around were threatening, hostile faces.
Giving up, I waved it off and pulled out a cigarette. I bit off the filter and spat it out onto the dirty, greasy floor covered in dust, crushed cigarette butts and beer spittle. Then I struck a match. As I was bringing it up to the cigarette, the bartender roared so loud that my arm jolted from fright, and the match went out.
‘God damn it!’ the bartender yelled, ‘don’t you spit around here. You think you’re in a barn, or at home, or something? There’s no spitting around here, God damn it!’
Things were getting serious. I must leave while I still can, I thought, and without another word I turned around and walked towards the door. Halfway there the bartender’s voice caught up with me. ‘What about the beer? Listen up you, stop pissing me off!’
Without looking back, I said, ‘I don’t want it.’
‘But you paid for it,’ the bartender bellowed, and there was a threat in his voice, now completely unveiled.
‘So what?’
‘Ooh,’ he groaned. ‘Listen up you, stop pissing me off!’
By then I was almost at the door. A quick exit! But a tall, fat man stepped in front of me, and his 200-pound body blocked the entire doorway.
‘Didn’t you hear, buddy? You’ve got a beer over there.’
I gave him a seething look, but like a stubborn ram he just calmly reiterated, ‘The beer.’
I was drenched in sweat, and not just from the heat. They’re about to jump me—an absurd thought ran through my head—I scurried back to the bar and with an apologetic gesture I said, ‘Actually, yes, Marice and beer.’
I put on an embarrassed, self-critical smile, to indicate to the bartender that he was right. I succumbed just in the nick of time; by admitting my guilt I evaded capital punishment. The jury took into consideration the mitigating circumstances—unprecedented heat, possible heat stroke, and associated absentmindedness. The bartender even gave me a benevolent smile, as if to say: ‘Don’t worry about it, it happens, but that’s why I’m here, to know what you need, and I forgive you.’ With a nod I thanked him for his forgiveness. I picked up the beer, and ashamed, humiliated, I made my way past a row of sidelong glances to the window. I wanted to go outside, but I gave up on it; it looked like they were guarding the door. The 200-pound man was still standing there.
I placed the beer on the windowsill and very visibly turned my back to the room. I knew they were watching me to make sure that I wasn’t going to pull a fast one on them and pour the beer out the window. Indeed, it had been a mistake to stand next to an open window; it reinforced their suspicions. Escape was out of the question; by the time I could have squeezed through the low opening, they would have pulled me back in. Besides which, I wouldn’t have got far; they were guarding the outdoors as well—two men were leaning against the railing by the exit.
In order to placate them, I tried to down the beer in one shot; I feigned thirst, and although it felt as though I was pouring liquid into an overflowing vessel, I managed to empty the glass without taking it off my lips. I could feel the bitter liquid pushing up from my stomach into my throat, yet I was thinking about having another; perhaps it would smooth things over with them.
Their unyielding looks full of suspicion were becoming harder and harder to bear. It was as though I had walked into a den of conspirators without knowing the password. I lit another cigarette, though this time I didn’t bite off the filter. I couldn’t just stand around. I decided to try to leave as if nothing had happened.
I headed for the door. The 200-pound man with the expression of a ram was leaning on the doorframe in a leisurely manner, a beer in hand. Without a word, and with apparent disinterest, his watery gaze slid down me. I got in line at the bar. I was hungry and thirsty.
My turn came, but before I had a chance to order salami, there was a beer with foam spilling over the side in front of me.
‘A quarter pound of dry salami and two rolls,’ I said.
‘A quarter pound of dry salami, two rolls, and a beer,’ the bartender said to the cashier, and with an automatic movement he pushed another beer in front of the next person in line. He gave me a questioning look, but I nodded, in hopes of redeeming myself.
I carried everything to my old spot by the window. I ate slowly, chasing the food with beer. Nausea was setting in. I racked my brain for what to do, but I saw no way out. I glanced out the window. The two men were still leaning against the railing at the exit from the garden. A man was walking up the steps. He looked familiar.
When he came in, I recognized him as an old acquaintance from my university days. We had been roommates for a year. He studied medicine. I recognized him despite the fact that he looked very different; he had lost a lot of weight. He was no longer the boy with a red, chubby face. He had lost weight and looked very respectable. Perhaps he was a decent doctor. Yes, he fit ordinary people’s expectations of a doctor—they needed him to fit their expectations; it was the only way they could entrust themselves to him. Neither fat nor thin, clean-shaven, clean nails, respectable average, guaranteed reliability.
I was quite relieved. I had never been so glad to see an acquaintance before. Hopefully, he’d remember me. I stared at him until he looked around nervously—he couldn’t take my gaze at the back of his neck any more. His eyes landed on me briefly, then they touched another face; it was clear that he was searching for the source of the rear attack. And then. Then he came back to me, and the sight of his face, which showed signs of recognition, made me feel happy to be alive.
He stepped out of the line and walked up to me.
‘Hey man, I haven’t seen you in years.’ He gave me a good-natured slap on the shoulder. ‘Say, how long has it been?’
‘Five years, I think.’
‘You’re right. Five years. That’s ages. Where do you work?’
‘At a magazine.’
‘That’s right.’ He slapped his forehead. ‘Every once in a while I read your stuff. So what are you doing here?’
‘How about you?’ I said quickly, too quickly.
‘Me? I live nearby. I’m a regular, my friend. But you,’ he said, pointing a finger at me, ‘I’ve never seen you here before.’
I wondered whether I should tell him about the strange situation I was in, and confide my concerns to him, but I didn’t know how to explain it; there was no way to explain, it didn’t make any sense, it was almost comical. Besides which, since I had run into him the whole nightmare had started to dissipate. What luck that he was a regular, if nothing else, he could confirm that he knew me, he could put in a good word for me, I thought, but it made me realize that I hadn’t shaken all of my concerns.
‘I was just passing by when I ran out of cigarettes,’ I said.
‘Oh. So we only met thanks to cigarettes and beer.’ He laughed.
‘Beer? What beer? What is it with you people and beer around here?’ His mention of beer threw me for a loop.
‘What are you getting upset about? I’ll go get the beer,’ he snapped.
‘No, no, no.’
‘Quit babbling. I can see how thirsty you are.’ He pointed to the second glass, which I had just emptied with the greatest self-abnegation, and there was no defense against his argument.
He headed towards the bar.
At that moment I decided to tell him everything, no matter how ridiculous it would sound. I couldn’t let him find out about the whole incident from the bartender or from one of them; they’d give him biased information, and I’d have a hard time disproving it. I grabbed him by the arm.
He listened to my muddled tale with astonishment. I kept looking at him, trying to figure out from his expression how much importance I should assign to the whole incident. Although I hate being laughed at, I would have gladly been the target of his ridicule. Instead, I got the opposite impression—his astonishment turned to concern, then to alarm, and by the time I finished, there was visible fear on his face. Needless to say, I felt more than anxious.
‘You didn’t want beer? Whoa,’ he said in a low voice, and shook his head in despair.
‘Is it bad?’ I asked.
He gave me a stern look. His mouth opened three times, but each time he swallowed the words that were bubbling up in his throat. Finally, he said, ‘Let me see what I can do. I’ll certainly try. But I must be honest; I don’t have great hopes. They saw that we know each other, so they probably won’t trust me.’
He looked around surreptitiously; fear came over his face once more. They were all staring at us with a motionless gaze.
He skipped the line and went straight to the bartender. The bartender wiped his hands on his wet smock and motioned for the woman to take his place. There was an empty table in the corner by the bar. The bartender pulled my friend to the table, and they sat down. I saw them talking, and I watched their hand gestures to try to get a sense of how the conversation was going. My friend had his back to me, the bartender was facing me. Once in a while he’d lift his head and look me up and down. My friend was trying to persuade him of something, but he must have been unsuccessful, because the bartender kept shaking his head in disagreement. Then the gestures became more abrupt; they must have been arguing. All of a sudden the bartender stood up and waved at someone. Two men got up from a table; I noticed that both of them were wearing the same flannel shirt and their faces looked alike as well. They must have been brothers.
Once they made it to the table where my friend was sitting (by then the bartender was seated again), they sat down across from each other without so much as a word. My friend lifted his head, glanced at each of them in turn, and then shrunk back in his chair. By this point the bartender was the only one talking, my friend just nodded. I knew that his defense had failed. In fact, he had joined the ranks of the accused.
The bartender got up one last time and emphasized something. My friend didn’t react. Then the bartender went back to the bar and started to serve beer. The negotiations were over.
The two brothers in flannel shirts got up. One of them touched my friend’s shoulder to indicate that he should get up. My friend stood up obediently.
They set off—one brother on each side, my friend in the middle. I didn’t know where they were going, but they were not headed for the exit. As they passed by me, my friend lifted his head. With my face, my hands, my whole body I indicated the question—how did it go? On my friend’s face there was helplessness, apathy, despair and blame. In fact, mostly blame. It was brief, but it was enough; that look burned an indelible mark of guilt and shame on my forehead for ever. He went back to walking with a hung head and slumped shoulders.
They stopped in front of a green door with cracked paint and an enamelled sign: STORAGE. Underneath it was written in small letters: Staff only. One of the brothers opened the door and went in. The other one shoved my friend who had paused ever so briefly, his whole body went stiff, as if he were getting ready to leap, but the man behind him put his hands on my former friend’s shoulders, and his body went limp again. He walked in, the man in the flannel shirt was right behind him. The door closed.
I was hyperventilating. I pulled out a cigarette. I broke two matches before I was able to light it. A few long draughts helped me; I recovered a little.
The implacable stares of the whole pub were on me. I feigned indifference, as if I cared about nothing but smoking and salami, which was starting to take on a healthy green tinge.
The door to the storage room opened again, and the two men in flannel shirts came out. Their dull faces were inscrutable. My friend didn’t surface. The brothers went up to the bartender; one of them said a few words. The bartender grimaced and gave him a satisfied nod. He served them beer ahead of the line. They picked up the beers and went back to their table.
I couldn’t take the stifling uncertainty any more, so I set out for the storage-room door. By the time they realized what was going on, I was a couple of steps from it. Two men sitting closest to the door jumped up and blocked my way. They were defending the entrance with their bodies. They didn’t say a word, but I could tell they were on alert. The bartender darted out from behind the bar and lashed out at me, ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘I want to take a look in there,’ I said.
‘What? How can you take a look in there? Can’t you read? STAFF ONLY,’ he said, enunciating every syllable.
I could tell it was useless. I didn’t stand a chance against all of them. I chose retreat. Shrugging my shoulders I said, ‘Then give me a shot of vodka.’
Everyone seemed to exhale.
‘Get in line,’ the bartender said triumphantly.
I stood at the end of the line, which wound its way to the door. The 200-pound man with the expression of a ram was leaning on the doorframe in a leisurely manner, beer in hand. Then I noticed that his glass was empty. Why doesn’t he go get a refill, I wondered. I realized that the line wasn’t moving. I glanced at the bar; there was no beer and no bartender. The beer had run out, he went to tap another keg. This is my last chance at escape, I thought. Everyone looked a bit lax; their attention had waned. As if they were missing their elixir. They didn’t have beer, and the bartender, who represented the greatest danger for me, was gone. I felt encouraged.
I pretended to be in a stupor, waiting, like the rest of them. It looked as though I had managed to lull them. They had become too sure of themselves. They underestimated me.
In a split second I turned around and took off. The door guard wasn’t ready, he stumbled on impact, and I slipped by him. I dashed down the steps and ran down the street.
It was late, the sun’s rays had lost some of their intensity, and many more people were outside than before. Most of them were coming home from a swim. I knew that I was safe in a crowd. I stopped running. I looked back. The 200-pound man and several others were standing at the entrance to the pub. They weren’t moving. They just stared at me. I waved at them smugly. They didn’t react.
I took a look around. I was standing on a small square lined with old linden trees; all the benches in the shade were taken. On the bench closest to me sat an old woman and a little girl. The girl kept climbing up and jumping down. The well-meaning old woman admonished her, ‘Quit jumping, because you’ll kill yourself and Mummy will be mad.’
Unspeakable joy washed over me.
I headed for the tram stop.
DUŠAN MITANA (1946 – 2019) studied television and film writing at the Academy of Performing Arts in Bratislava, but he left the university when his thesis advisor was removed in the wake of the political changes after 1968. Mitana then worked for two of the most prominent literary journals in Slovakia, Mladá tvorba and Romboid, and from 1975 on he was a freelance writer. In 1989 he became one of the founding members of the Slovak chapter of PEN. His works, which include more than a dozen books of prose, two collections of poetry, and several scripts, span a period of more than forty years and have been translated and published in more than twenty countries. His last book, Nezvestný (Missing, 2019), of which this piece is an excerpt, has been published posthumously.
This story comes from his first story collection in English translation, On the Threshold, to be published by Seagull Books in November 2024.
About the Translator:
MAGDALENA MULLEK is an independent literary translator and scholar. She holds a PhD in Slavic Languages and Literatures from Indiana University. Her published translations include The Dedalus Book of Slovak Literature (Dedalus Books, 2015), Into the Spotlight: New Writing from Slovakia (Three String Books, 2017), the children’s book The Escape by Marek Vadas (BRaK, 2018), and the upcoming novel It Happened on the First of September (or Some Other Time) by Pavol Rankov (Three String Books, 2020). Her current project is a book of short stories by Dušan Mitana. Magdalena lives with her husband and their daughter in Orlando, Florida; Puerto Vallarta, Mexico; and Poprad, Slovakia.