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Vilikovský, Pavel: Sigman Fryahd to Yussuf Broyah (Sígmán Fríjád Jusúfovi Bríjárovi in English)

Portre of Vilikovský, Pavel

Sígmán Fríjád Jusúfovi Bríjárovi (Slovak)

Milý kolega a priateľ,

to sme zase mali horúčavy! Dalo by sa povedať až transcendentné, lebo človeku sa lepí nielen jazyk na podnebie a tunika na chrbát, ale zliepa sa mu aj id so superegom. (Termíny, ak si ešte spomínaš, pochádzajú z mojej zatiaľ súkromnej teórie, ktorou som ťa posledne zabával pri čaši vína.) Veru, bezodné sparná, to sú tie chvíle zvláštnych vnuknutí, keď sa možno predriemať k najcennejším objavom. Lenže presýpavý je piesok spánku! Sebapozorovaním som dospel k domnienke, že takéto zduchovnenie je možné práve iba v okamihoch plákania najšpinavšej fyzickej bielizne, keď sa ti vlastné telo neznesiteľne bridí. Áno, útek, zúfalý útek do duchovna, a každá iná duchovnosť je iba hra a predstieranie. Žiaľ, tieto úteky mávajú iba krátke trvanie. Cítime sa azda bez svojej smrteľnosti takí opustení a bez významu? Alebo je smrť jediná metafyzika, ktorá nám zostala, lebo jedine ona nás ešte presahuje?
Ale nechajme počasie. Uvažoval som o Tvojej poslednej skúsenosti s vyháňaním démona, ktorého Ty voláš Hysterion a ja so svojím nepolepšiteľným sklonom k vulgárnosti a zjednodušovaniu súkromne prezývam Pičník. Mám na mysli Tvoju posadnutú A., ktorá sa razom vyliečila zo slepoty, keď počas zariekavania omylom vliezla do ešte celkom nevyhasnutej pahreby. Veľmi si vážim Tvoje postrehy, i keď s niektorými budem azda polemizovať. Správne si, myslím, vyzdvihol nečakanosť, prekvapivosť podnetu, no hypotézu, že úlohu tu hrala aj jeho príčinná súvislosť so zrakom (na vlastnej koži sa presvedčila o škodlivosti slepoty) považujem už za spornejšiu. Na základe vlastnej praxe zastávam názor, že poriadne zaucho či vedro ľadovej vody, keby prišli nečakane a najmä v kombinácii s magickými hókusmipókusmi, by mali rovnaký účinok, hoci s telesným postihnutím nijako príčinne nesúvisia. Tvoja myšlienka je vábna, ale bude jej treba ešte dôkladnejšie siahnuť pod tuniku.
Mňa osobne vždy oveľa väčšmi fascinovala okolnosť, že jeden a ten istý démon sa prejavuje toľkými rozličnými spôsobmi - raz ochromí nohu, inokedy ruku, raz postihne zrak, inokedy sluch, vyvolá stratu reči, ba poznáme aj prípady, keď znehybní celé telo. Vieme, že príroda nie je márnotratná, že zbytočne neplytvá - prečo potom toľká pestrosť a na základe čoho si v danom konkrétnom prípade vyberá? Ak je démon, to jest proces, ktorý vedie k telesnému postihnutiu, rovnaký - a o tom som osobne presvedčený - čo je potom tou premennou veličinou, ktorá rozhoduje práve o tejto a nie inej forme postihnutia? Čo je zakaždým iné? Pravdaže, človek. Aká ľahká, aká samozrejmá je odpoveď, keď ju už poznáme! Ale čo to znamená? Že by si démon prezliekal ľudí ako plášte? Odkiaľ sa u neho berie toľká parádivosť? Alebo je to tak, že ľudia si sami volia svojho démona?
Vráťme sa však k Tvojej posadnutej A. Nebol som pri tom, ale dobre poznám tie slovné výgrcky, ktoré sa z človeka začnú valiť v okamihu náhlej úľavy, to jazykové obžerstvo naruby, a preto tým väčšmi obdivujem vnímavosť či jemnocit, s akým si zo záplavy rečí odchytil naoko nenápadnú poznámku o jazyčnatej susede, ktorá nešťastnej A. šprihla do tváre: "Pravda oči kole." Banalita, ale čo sa stane človeku, ktorému pravda vykole oči? Oslepne! Aké geniálne jednoduché - až trochu príliš, vravíš a pýtaš sa, či to nie je prismelá hypotéza. Priznám sa, bol by som v pokušení súhlasiť, keby ma moje vlastné skúsenosti neprivádzali k podobným úvahám. Netvrdím, že sa Ti podaril rozhodujúci prielom, ale o diere v plote by som sa v tejto súvislosti nebál hovoriť.
Prečo píšem: chcem sa Ti zdôveriť s jedným prípadom, ktorý, ako sa mi zdá, vylamuje tie isté latky, ibaže z opačnej strany plota. Pred časom prišiel za mnou istý privandrovalec, stolár, jednoduchý človek zrejme dobrého srdca, ak také slová v dnešnom svete ešte niečo znamenajú. Zistil, že dievča, ktoré v dobrej viere pojal za manželku, nielenže nie je panna, ale je dokonca v druhom stave, no on ju nezavrhol, ako by bol mohol a ako by si azda bola aj zaslúžila. Medzi nami, keby si ju videl, ani by si sa mu veľmi nečudoval. Delikateska. Viem, milý Jusúf že nemáš rád takéto reči, ale čo narobíme: svet je pohlavný, alebo ak chceš, pólovaný, a čo na sebe nesie pečať jedného pólu, nezadržateľne sa obracia k pólu opačnému. I ten posledný kamienok má pohlavie, i steblo trávy, prečo by som sa teda mal práve ja hanbiť za to, že občas zatúžim trtkať so západom slnka? (Vulgárny, vulgárny, ale veď ma poznáš.) Keď vyjdem podvečer na svoju skalu nad domom a slnko na mňa vyplazí oplzlý červený jazyk, bachraté, nerestné... nemôžem si pomôcť, ihneď pocítim známe chvenie v bedrách, tie podvedomé kikiríkavé pohyby. Ešte mi aj pot vyrazí v podpazuší. Mýli ma iba tá neistota, že kto vlastne koho; lebo voči žene som iste muž, ale voči západu slnka? Nie je to tak, že ja iba prirážam?
Dosť žartovania. Muž teda ženu nevyhnal, potiaľ by bolo všetko v poriadku. Mohli by žiť šťastne, až kým nepomrú, vyzerajú na to dosť jednoduchí. Problém je v tom, že dievčina, namiesto aby bozkávala lem jeho rúcha, odmieta s ním obcovať. Má pre to aj svoje vysvetlenie, ktoré však muž - zo svojho hľadiska nie neprávom - považuje za bludné našepkávanie démona. No, a tak sa obrátil na odborníka, aby démona z dievčiny vyhnal. Poviem pravdu, v prvej chvíli ma jeho polovičatosť aj nasrdila - keby bol chlap, ako sa patrí, myslel som si, nebude sa piplať s nejakým porcovaním a vyženie ich v svornej jednote oboch, démona i dievčinu. Na druhej strane ma však prípad svojou nezvyčajnosťou zaujal, s takým druhom démona som sa ešte nestretol. Ale ukázalo sa, že vec má háčik: dievčina sa nechce dať liečiť. Prečo aj, veď netrpí, naopak, je šťastná. Poznáš tú vajcovitú škrupinovosť, tú sebaponornosť samodruhých žien; keď sa im zachce, keď sa im zazdá, že sa svet na ne mračí, vlezú si za dieťatkom do vlastného brucha a veselo s ním šantia, pľačkajú sa v plodových vodách... Môžeš im pokojne vyliezť na hrb, ale do brucha za nimi nevlezieš. Slovom, dievčina nedovolí vyháňať démona, lebo v sebe nijakého démona nemá, ona nosí v bruchu Mesiáša. Syna Božieho Vykupiteľa, alebo takú nejakú pomyselnú bytosť.
Ale vyrozprávam Ti ten jej príbeh, ten jej blud po poriadku: Jedného dňa okolo obeda - čas uvádzam iba preto, aby bolo jasné, že sa to neodohralo v noci, v spánku - priletí k nej za veľkého trepotu krídel, vírenia prachu a rozličných ďalších efektov služobný anjel, jeden z tých poštárov Božích, a oznámi jej radostnú novinu, že počne Mesiáša. A kým sa oplašené dievča spamätá, je anjel fuč. Nie, počkaj, stihol jej ešte prezradiť zopár podrobností, ani neviem, či sa ho zo zvedavosti opýtala, alebo s tým vyrukoval sám od seba: bude to priamo Syn Boží a počne ho s Duchom Svätým, to je, ak nevieš, výron božskej podstaty v podobe bieleho holúbka. Hej, už si spomínam, predsa sa ho len ona opýtala, povedala mu: No ale dovoľ, anjel, ako môžem počať ja, nedotknutá! Chladnokrvná dievčina na svojich dvanásť-trinásť rokov, oveľa viac vtedy určite nemala. A on jej vraví: Takými vecami si ty nelám hlavu. Boh to už zariadi, priletí biely holúbok a bude. Mal ten predvídavý anjel pre dieťatko hneď aj vybraté meno, momentálne mi nezíde na um. No a naozaj, po nejakom čase odišla na návštevu k príbuzným do iného mesta, a keď sa vrátila, bola v treťom mesiaci. Nedalo mi to, veď ma poznáš, a tak Ti môžem prezradiť, že naozaj sa tam na tej návšteve v istej chvíli zjavil biely holub, najprv jej len poletoval vysoko nad hlavou, vtedy ho aj zreteľne videla, ale potom nižšie už z neho bola iba prenikavá žiara, biela, celkom ju oslepila, a zároveň pocítila dnu v sebe také teplo a vedela, že počala. Ťažko si jej slová overiť, keď sme ani ja, ani Ty ešte nepočali; a z Ducha Svätého napokon nepočal ešte nik. Podľa nej to bolo tak.
Povieš možno, milý kolega, že si robím nemiestne posmešky. Asi hej, ale nedaj sa tým pomýliť, v skutočnosti som smutný. Závidím, lebo ja taký krásny príbeh nikdy nevymyslím, a keby sa mi to náhodou aj podarilo, nikdy nebudem mať pri rozprávaní takú krásny tvár. Ona totiž tomu príbehu verí, ináč si neviem toľkú krása vysvetliť. Tá dievčina je taká krásny, akoby sa na ňu zo skutočnosti vôbec neprášilo, tak čisto... Bolí, Jusúf, to dievča bolí na pohľad. Poznáš ten pocit nenahraditeľnej straty niekedy, a nie preto, že Ti tá krása nepatrí a nikdy patriť nebude - veď vieme, že tak ako vietor, ani krása nikdy nepatrí, len vanie svetom - ale že keď je taká krása možná, prečo nie je rovnako krásny všetko ostatné? Alebo v nebi bude? Že by práve to bolo nebo, tá krása, ktorá mohla byť a na tomto svete sa nestala?
Trochu som odbočil, to je o inom. My dvaja, pravdaže, vieme ten krásny príbeh prečítať: dievča zasľúbené starcovi (zveličujem, ale skúsme sa na neho pozrieť jej očami), sladký mladý milenec, ktorému nevládze odolať, a potom neznesiteľný pocit viny... Tuctová historka, to nehovorím s pohŕdaním, naopak, chcem povedať, že keď je tuctová historka, tuctová je aj vina. Mala by byť, ale dievča svojím zmyslom pre hriech historku vysoko prečnieva. Aký neznesiteľne slastný to bol asi zážitok, aké kruto neznesiteľné previnenie, že ho musí odstraňovať sám Boh! Nikto menší by nestačil. A už poletujú anjeli, trepot krídel... Nemysli, ani to nie je náhoda, že Duch Svätý je vták! Odpusť, nemôžem za to; keď niekto veľmi rozvoniava, hneď sa pýtam, aký hnusný pach prekrýva toľkou voňavkou. Len si to vezmi detail po detaile: ak sa jej dotkol Boh, nie smrteľný chlap, potom je vlastne ešte stále nedotknutá. A po Bohu, kto by sa jej po Bohu mohol ešte dotýkať, nejaký starec? Veď ona obcovala so superstarcom, s večným! Alebo si vezmi, že ona nenosí v bruchu pangharta, kdeže! Koho to tam má? Syna Božieho! To je potom pravdaže čosi celkom iné, to nemôže byť ani reči o hriechu. Ale keby náhodou, keby predsa len, je pripravená: Vykupiteľ! Ten každý hriech na svete vykúpi. Akoby sa ani nestalo. Hohó! Vieme my čítať tieto príbehy!
Závidím, Jusúf, lebo po mne sa na nijakú taký ťažký balvan viny nezvalil. Možno niektorú kratučko zaomínal kamienok v sandáli, možno niektorá, keď som ju neskôr stretol na ulici, zakľučkovala predo mnou pohľadom, aj to väčšmi z koketérie ako z rozpakov; ale ani jedna z tých otvorených jaziev, čo ženy nosia v samom strede, nie je po mne. A niežeby nie, chcel som, pokúšal som sa svojím ukazovákom nahmatať v žene Boha, veril som, že tam niekde je, lebo odkiaľ by sa ináč vzala toľká príťažlivosť? Hádam nie k mäsu? Mával som v sebe až taký srd, že ho vydurím zo skrýše, myslel som si... kde inde by som ho mal pristihnúť živého, ak nie v žene? Veď keď sa priberieme tvoriť človeka, a nech je to aj vopred neplatný pokus, mal by predsa pri tom niekde nablízku byť Boh? Diskrétne, pravdaže, ale neodškriepiteľne? Raz - jediný raz! - sa mi zazdalo, že som ho zazrel, ale iba od chrbta, taký tieň, náhlivo prešiel očami a už ho nebolo. Mokré šľapaje. Nie, dnes si už nerobím nádeje, so ženami je to zabité, ale čo keby tak ten západ slnka? Čo povieš?
Dobre, závidím, lebo keď ju počúvaš, chvíľami aj uveríš, že u tej ženskej na podokenici pristávajú anjeli, ale to je vedľajšie. S tým si ja nejako poradím. Mimochodom, zázračné dieťa je medzičasom už na svete, má hlavu, dve ruky, dve nohy, zaparený zadok a vôbec, od druhých ho nejako nerozoznáš. Napokon, všetci sme dietky Božie, tak čo by nebol Boží práve jej syn. Nemysli, ja jej uznám, každá matka má právo myslieť si, že jej dieťa je zázračné. Už len čo všetko s ňou porobí, kým ho nosí v bruchu! Ja uznám, hnevá ma iba tá bezmocnosť, čo povedať stolárovi. Hádam mu nebudem rozprávať o mladom milencovi? No keby som aj v sebe zozbieral toľko odvahy, toľko bezohľadnosti, ako mám tomu jednoduchému človeku vysvetliť, že anjel nie je anjel a Duch Svätý nie je svätý, ba najmä ani nie je duch? A keby sa mi to podarilo, čo si s tým počne? Ako to chytí do tých svojich miesiželiez? Zavolal ma vyhnať démona, a vyháňanie sa nekonalo, lebo démon bol fuč. Možno sa čudovať, že stolár vo svojej bezmocnosti už tiež začína vidieť anjelov? Sú to zatiaľ takí plachí anjeli, iba sa mu maria, nevie ich ani dobre opísať; ešte sa hanbí, ale dokedy? Počuje hlasy, hovoria mu, aby verne stál pri žene, že je to vôľa Božia. Ešte len šepkajú, ale čo ak onedlho začnú kričať? Nemysli ja sa mu nevysmievam, stolárovi, musí si s tým nejako dať rady. Krásny príbeh! Keby si ju videl, ako drží to dieťa, líce primľasknuté na líci, a stolár ho zalomeným nechtom škrabká po päte! Čigli-čigli, vykupiteľ!
A ja, aby sme nehovorili stále len o iných, a ja? Ja, milý kolega, pod zámienkou, že som doniesol trochu múky z vlastných zásob, sedím v tej ich šope a oslovsky sa usmievam. Nemôžem za to, ten úsmev na mňa vystupuje sám od seba ako pot. Ešteže sú tu len tak na pol zadku, prišli na sčítanie ľudu, lebo stolár má tunajšiu domovskú príslušnosť. Tak som mu, keď mu už ináč neviem pomôcť, aspoň poradil, nahovoril som mu, ale pre ich vlastné dobro, že sa tu ten príbeh o zázrakoch medzi ľuďmi veľmi rozniesol a nerobí to dobrú krv. Že by mohli mať nepríjemnosti, sú také časy, a ani decku to nie je na osoh, tie reči o Mesiášovi a podobne. Aby odišli niekam ďaleko, kde ich nik nepozná a na nič sa ich nebude pýtať, napríklad do Egypta, a žili tam ako obyčajní ľudia. Anjelov a Duchov Svätých nech si nechajú pre seba, čo koho do toho. Normálna rodina, otec, matka a fafrnok. Zle som mu radil? Pre stolára sa všade nájde robota. A keď bude dievča ďaleko od milenca, možno naňho ľahšie zabudne. To vravím Tebe, starému som to nepovedal, jemu len toľko, že medzi cudzími sa s ním aj žena iste väčšmi zblíži. Čoskoro sa už poberú, dúfam. Krásny, nebezpečne krásny príbeh! Nákazlivý, ale veď ja ho zo seba vypotím!
Teraz už naozaj k veci, konečne. Bojím sa, Jusúf. Vieš, že démonov považujem za celkom šťastnú a pre nás aj pracovne užitočnú metaforu určitých telesných a duševných pochodov, niekedy mi však preblesne hlavou myšlienka, čo sú to asi za časy, v ktorých Boh vyvoláva iba zdvorilý rešpekt, akoby to bol nejaký verejný úrad, zato však démoni sa tešia živej a vrúcnej viere? Skús len vyjsť na ulicu a opýtať sa prvého chodca, a nech je to hoci aj nevzdelaný pastier alebo malé dieťa, hneď Ti vysype, že démoni majú šestoro vlastností, tri, ktorými sa podobajú služobným anjelom, a tri, ktorými sa rovnajú ľuďom; služobným anjelom sa rovnajú tým, že majú krídla ako služobní anjeli, obletujú svet z konca na koniec a vedia, čo sa prihodí, a ľuďom sa podobajú tým, že jedia, pijú; množia sa a umierajú práve tak ako ľudia. Keby si sa ho spýtal na Boha, dozvieš sa nanajvýš, že je ďaleko.
Vieš, rozmýšľal som o Tvojej posadnutej A. Ako to príde, že jeden človek povie "Pravda oči kole" a druhý, celkom iný, z toho oslepne? My dvaja predsa nemôžeme všetko zvaliť na démona, či už ho budeme nazývať Hysterion, alebo Pičník. Predstavil som si teda v duchu tú situáciu: Jedného dňa príde za A. suseda a medzi rečou jej prezradí, že jej manžel utráca majetok s ľahkými ženštinami. Možno to bolo ináč, možno sa A. dopočula, že suseda roznáša takéto chýry a sama sa za ňou vybrala, aby proti tomu zakročila. Tak či onak, suseda na jej rozhorčené výčitky zareagovala slovami "Pravda oči kole" a A. do večera oslepla. Tu hneď treba povedať, že suseda nie je čarodejnica, zázračná liečiteľka ani iná osoba obdarená nadprirodzenými schopnosťami, ale celkom obyčajná klebetná baba a veta "Pravda oči kole" nie je magická formulka, ale bežné úslovie, ktoré obraznou formou vyjadruje banálny postreh, že pravda je nepríjemná, že sa postihnutému zle počúva. Som presvedčený, že keby A. bola úslovie prečítala v tomto jeho zvyčajnom význame teda keby ho bola prijala nepredpojatým, súdnym rozumom, nebolo by malo taký zničujúci účinok. Povedzme, že dotyčná bola na chorobu náchylná, že démon už len číhal na príležitosť - inými slovami, že v kútiku duše o manželových výčinoch vedela, len si sama pred sebou odmietala priznať pravda, vytlačila ju z vedomia. Kam ju vytlačila a aké to má dôsledky, to teraz nebude predmetom našich úvah, odložíme si to radšej na niektoré z budúcich posedení pri víne. Dosť na tom, že nevinná veta "Pravda oči kole" zrazu pre A. nadobudla hrozivý zmysel, že jej pravda - ako vieme, nepriznaná, potlačená - vykole oči, že ju teda oslepí. A naozaj, za večerného súmraku zistí, že nevidí.
Odkiaľ sa v slovách vzala tá strašná sila? Tak znie otázka, a je to opäť jedna z tých otázok, ktoré sa zdajú neuveriteľne ľahké, keď už na ne poznáme odpoveď. No odkiaľ? Spomeň si na krásnu pani stolárku. Medzi nami, tá krása kosí, Jusúf, skosí Ťa jediným čistým švihom, ale to teraz nie je dôležité. To ja zvládnem. Bojím sa iného. Prišiel som vyhnať démona, a démona nebolo. Bola šťastná žena, samodruhá a nedotknutá, a boli anjeli, holubice, samé biele perie. Čo sa stalo? No čo? Veď sme si to vlastne už povedali. Mladá žena objavila v sebe démona a podľahla mu, ba podľahnutie nezostalo bez následkov. Ako som vravel, všedná historka, lenže, lenže. Či už ju objav tak zaskočil, alebo mala o sebe veľmi vysokú mienku, tá predstava - ona a démon! - bola pre ňu taká neznesiteľná, že ho zo seba vyniesla ako smeti. Vyrozprávala, vyklamala ho zo seba v krásnom príbehu. Teraz ten jej príbeh blúdi medzi ľuďmi a v bruchu, skrytého, nosí démona. Chápeš, čo chcem povedať, milý priateľ? Lebo iste, môžeme priznať, že to dievča má zvláštny talent na hriech - nemyslím hriech páchať, ale talent až do dna ho vychutnať - no v tom, ako sa ho zbavuje, sa od nás ostatných nijako nelíši. Samodruhá!, tak hmatateľne, tak rukolapne zažila, a predsa vychádza, na druhom konci, zo zážitku nepoznačená. Tu máš zázrak, tisíckrát každodenný! Do zunovania neopakovateľný! Áno, milý kolega a priateľ, zaprasili sme svet krásnymi príbehmi, kde slová jedno hovoria a druhé znamenajú, a my sa po ňom prechádzame nedotknutí.
Toto je dlhý list, a čo je horšie, plný slov. Písaval som Ti, Jusúf, keď na mňa prišla taká nálada, nekonečné listy, bezstarostne, roztopašným oblúkom, akoby si bol krík vedľa cesty, som na Teba striekal moč svojich slov, ale s tým je, obávam sa, koniec. Nie sme nevinní, ani my, á tak si musím položiť otázku: aká to bola nálada? Bola to nálada, alebo sa to iba démoni vo mne pýtali na prechádzku? Koľko je v tom pýchy, vyháňať cudzích démonov! A svojich? Neviem, koho Ti posielam, Jusúf, a koho si Ty v tom liste nájdeš. Kde je tá matka, ktorej som priadol v náručí? Kde je, vážne? Bola? Je pravda, že som aj ja kedysi voňal v spánku? Dnes sa, pravdaže, nemôžem v spánku ovoňať, a nemám ani nikoho, kto by mi spravil tú službu, ale viem, že večer, aj teraz pri tomto liste, večer kyslo razím.
Nechce sa mi písať. Slová sú skazené, a medzi ľuďmi nemáme iné. Nebudem už na Teba púšťať psov svojich nálad, len Ti ešte poviem o ťave. Moja ťava Kemal... vidíš, ako smiešne to znie! Slová sú skazené, hovorím Ti. Aký sodomský cit asi musel viesť toho, čo po prvý raz pomenoval oné zvieratá, keď pre samcov i samice zvolil slovo ženského rodu! Akého odporného démona sa tým asi zbavoval! Ale už sa stalo a aj ja, priznám sa, nevdojak vnímam svojho Kemala ako ženskú. Nie tak, ako si myslíš, Ty nehanebník, cítim len istú prítulnosť k tej teplej srsti a sú chvíle, keď sa mi žiada priložiť ucho a počúvať, ako v prázdnom hrbe nahlas ločká smäd. Načo mi je, mimochodom, ťava, keď nemám, čo by som na ňu naložil, a skôr prejde vypasený farizej uchom ihly ako našinec na ťave do kráľovstva nebeského - inam sa totiž už nechystám. No ale čo, keď som ju dostal do daru za jedno zázračné vyliečenie. S tým je koniec. Ozaj, nechceš ťavu? Nie, nemám Ti ju. Mám svoju ťavu rád, a nie preto, že by nemala démonov, práve naopak. V niektoré dni ňou šijú všetci diabli, vyšívajú s ňou také ornamenty, až jej z ohrnutých pyskov strieka pena a kolenami vyrýva do piesku hlboké brázdy; ale krásne príbehy, prisahám Ti, krásne príbehy mi ešte nikdy nerozprávala. A nie preto, nemysli si, že by bola nemá. Nemá nie! Stačí sa pozrieť na tú jej mimobežnú papuľu, ako hornou sánkou čosi tvrdí a spodnou to v tej istej chvíli popiera, uhýba spod toho tvrdenia, odoberá mu podklad, opodstatnenie... Nie nemá, iba nevýslovná. Ale o to nejde. Mám svoju ťavu rád, ba čoraz radšej, ale s radosťou by som im ju venoval, len nech už idú. Do Egypta, do Moábu, do Edómu, mne je jedno. Niekam ďaleko.
Bojím sa, Jusúf. Obávam sa, že Boh na nás serie, čo inými slovami znamená, že nám odpustil. Za tým nezáujmom, za tou ľahostajnosťou sa nemôže skrývať iné ako všeobecné rozhrešenie. Už ho nebavíme. Nechce sa mu vybavovať naše podania a sťažnosti, prehrabávať sa holými rukami v našich klamstvách. Ak nás stvoril hriešnych, potom iste nie preto, že by mal záľubu v trestaní, ale, tak to cítim, aby nám hriechom dal možnosť. Aby sme v hriechu mali mierku, o čo sme práve ako ľudia podrástli. Stvoril nás hriešnych, ale keby teraz zvolal: Hriešni, ku mne!, myslíš, že by niekto pribehol? Moja ťava, možno. Tak čo už s nami? Krásne príbehy! Veď áno, len sa cvičme, lebo odteraz, ak zatúžime po Bohu, budeme si ho musieť vymyslieť. Tento nám odpustil a mávol nad nami rukou. Nechal nás na nás samých. Medzi nami, mohol vymyslieť horšie peklo?

Tvoj kolega a dúfam, že aj po tomto liste ešte priateľ

Sígmán


PublisherKrutý strojvodca

Sigman Fryahd to Yussuf Broyah (English)

Dear colleague and friend,

Well, it's been sweltering again! Transcendently so, you might say, given that not only does your tongue stick to your palate and your tunic to your back, but your id to your superego as well. (The terms, if you remember, come from my own - as yet private - theory which I entertained you with the last time we met over a glass of wine). Bottomless hot spells, that's what they are, all right - those moments of strange inspiration when you can doze your way to the most precious discoveries. Only, the sand of sleep runs out! Through self-observation I came to the view that such spiritualization is possible only in moments of rising the filthiest physical linen, when your own body disgusts you beyond tolerance. Yes, flight - a desperate flight into the spiritual, and every other spirituality is only a game and a simulation. Unfortunately, these flights are usually of short duration. Do we feel without our mortality so abandoned and without meaning? Or is death the only metaphysics that is left to us because it is only thing that still transcends us.
But, let's the weather. I was thinking about your last experience with exorcising the demon that you call Hysterion and I, with my incorrigible penchant for vulgarity and simplification, privately call Cuntie. I mean your possessed A, who was cured of blindness in an instant when during incantation she accidentally stumbled into some embers that had not completely died out. I think very highly of your remarks, though I suppose I'll take issue with some of them. I think you're quite right in emphasising the unexpectedness, the surprisingness of the stimulus, but the hypothesis that its causal relation with sight also played a role (she discovered to her own cost the harmfulness of blindness) seems to the more questionable. My own experience leads me to the view that a good slap on the face or a bucket of ice-cold water, if they were delivered without warning and, above all, in combination with some magical hocus-pocus, would have the same effect, even though they are not in any way causally related to the physical affliction. Your idea is beguiling, but you'll have to get a bit further under its tunic.
Personally, I've always been much more fascinated by the fact that one and the same demon appears in so many different ways - one time he paralyses a leg, another time an arm; one time he afflicts vision, another time hearing; or he causes loss of speech. And we even know cases when he immobilises the whole body. We know nature is not wasteful, that it doesn't squander without cause. So why such variety? And on what basis in any concrete instance does it choose? If the demon - that is, the process - which leads to the physical affliction is the same (and, personally, I'm convinced of it), then what is the variable that decides on this rather than any other form of affliction? What is it that's different in each case? The individual, of course. How easy, how obvious the answer is when we already know it! But what does it mean? That the demon puts on people like robes? Where does he get such flashiness from? Or is it people themselves choose their own demon?
But let's get back to your possessed A. I wasn't there, but I'm very familiar with this verbal puke that starts spewing out in a moment of sudden relief - that linguistic gluttony in reverse - and so I admire all the more the perceptiveness and discernement with which you plucked from the flood of language the at first sight unexceptional remark about the gabby neighbour who spat into the unfortunate A's face: "Truth is bad for your eyes." A platitude - but what happens to someone when truth is bad for his eyes? He goes blind! How brilliantly simply - a little too simply, you say, and you ask whether the hypothesis is not too bold. I confess that I would be tempted to agree if my own experience had not led me to similar reflections. I'm not claiming that you've achieved a decisive breakthrough, but I wouldn't be frightened to speak of a hole in the fence on this matter.
Why am I writing? I want to confide in you a case which, so it seems to me, breaks off those same pales, but from the other side of the fence. Some time ago a certain newcomer comes to see me - a carpenter, a simple man who seemed to have his heart in the right place, if such an expression still means anything in today's world. He had found out that the girl he had in good faith taken for his wife not only was not a virgin, but was even expecting. But he didn't turn his back on her, as he could have done and as she might have deserved. Between you and me, if you'd seen her, that wouldn't really surprise you. A real delicacy. I know, dear Yussuf, you don't like such talk, but what can we do? It's a sexual world, or, if you will, a world of poles, and what bears the sign of one pole turns irrepressibly towards the opposite pole. Even the last little stone has a sex, even the blade of grass - so why should I feel ashamed because from time to time I get the desire to have it off with the sunset. (Vulgar, vulgar - but you know what I'm like.) When I go in the late afternoon to my rock above the house and the sun sticks its lascivious red tongue out at me, obese and lewd... I can't help it, I immediately get that familiar trembling in the loins, those subconscious cock-a-doodle-doo stirrings. And sweat breaks out in my armpits, as well. The only thing that troubles me is the uncertainty as to who's laying whom; because where a woman's concerned, I'm obviously a man. But with the sunset? Doesn't it mean that I'm just doing the grinding?
O.K., that's enough joking. So, anyway, the man didn't throw the woman out, and up to that point everything would have been all right. They could live happily until the day they died, they look simple enough. The problem is that the lass, instead of kissing the hem of his robe, refused to lie with him. And she has her explanation for it, which the man - not unjustly from his point of view - sees as the befunddling whisperings of a demon. And so he turned to an expert to exorcise the demon from the lass. To tell you the truth, at first this wishy-washiness of his rather annoyed me - if he was a real man, I thought to myself, he wouldn't pussyfoot around with half measures, but would get rid of them both in harmonious unity, the demon and the lass. On the other hand, I was taken by the unusualness of the case - I had never encountered such a demon before. But the whole thing turned out to have a hitch: the lass doesn't want to be cured. And why should she? She's not suffering. On the contrary, she's happy. You know that egg-like shelliness, that self-absorption of women with child; when they want to, when they think the world is frowning at them, they crawl after the babe into their belly and lark merrily around with it, splashing about in the fluid... You can be there or not for all they care, but you won't get into the belly after them. In a word, the lass won't allow the demon to be exorcised because she doesn't have any demon there - what she's carrying is the Messiah. The son of God, the Redeemer, or some such imagined being.
But I'll tell you this story of hers - this delusion - step by step. One day around noon - I mention the time just so that it's clear it didn't happen at night, in sleep - there flies to her, amid a great fluttering of wings, swirling of dust and various other effects, an angel, one of those messengers of God, and tells her the good news that she's going to conceive the Messiah. And by the time the startled girl's come round, the angel's off. No, wait a minute - he did just manage to give her a few details, but I don't know if it was she who asked him out of curiosity, or whether he just came out with it himself: it would be the Son of God, no less, and she would conceive it with the Holy Spirit - in other words, in case you didn't know, with the effusion of God's essence in the form of a white dove. Oh, I remember - it was she who asked him: Now just a minute there, angel. How can I, who's never been touched, conceive? Pretty cool for her age - she certainly couldn't have been much than twelve or thirteen at the time. And he says to her: don't trouble your head with such things. God will see to all that; a white dove will fly to you and it will come to pass. And this far-sighted angel already had a name chosen for the babe, though it's slipped my mind at the moment. And, in fact, some time later the girl went off to visit relatives in another town and when she returned she was three months gone. Well, you know me: I couldn't let it go at that. So, I can tell you that there, during the visit, at a certain moment a white dove did appear, and first just flew high above her head, where she could see it quite clearly; but then, as it came lower, it was just an overwhelming brightness, white, which completely blinded her, and at the same time she felt a warmth within her and she knew she had conceived. It's difficult to authenticate her words, when neither you nor I have yet conceived; and when nobody, in fact, has ever conceived from the Holy Spirit. She says that's the way it was.
Perhaps you're saying to yourself that I'm making fun where I shouldn't. I suppose I am, but don't be fooled, I'm actually sad. I'm envious because I shall never think up such beautiful stories myself, and if by any chance I managed it, I'd never have such a beautiful face as I was telling them. You see, she believes the story; there's no other way I can explain so much beauty. That lass is so beautiful that it's as if no dust from reality ever settled on her, so pure... She hurts, Yussuf, the girl hurts when you look at her. You know that feeling sometimes of irreplaceable loss, and not so much because that beauty does not belong to you and never will - in any case, we know that like the wind beauty never belongs, but just waifs around the world - but that if such beauty is possible, why isn't everything else equally beautiful? Or perhaps in Heaven it will be? Could that be Heaven, the beauty that might have been and in this world has never materialised?
I got off the subject a bit. That was about something else. You and I, of course, can read this beautiful story: a girl promised to an old man (I'm exaggerating, but let's try looking her eyes), a sweet young lover whom she cannot resist, and then the un bearable sense of guilt... A commenplace story, but I don't mean that disdainfully. On the contrary, I mean that if it's a commenplace tale, the guilt is commenplace, too. Should be. But the Girl with her feeling for sin far surpasses the story. How unbearably blissful must the experience have been, and how cruelly unbearable the transgression, that God himself has to remove it! No-one less would do. And before you know it, angels flying around, the fluttering of wings... and don't think it's just a coincidence that the Holy Spirit's some sort of pecker! Sorry, I can't help it: when someone's walking around in a cloud of scent I always ask myself what nauseating stench he's covering up with it all. Just look at it point by point: if God touched her, not some mortal lad, then in fact she's really still untouched. And after God - who could possibly touch her? Some old man? After all, she's done it with the granddaddy of them all - the Eternal One! Or suppose she's not carrying a bastard - the mere idea! Who has she got there? The Son of God! Well, that's quite another matter - sin doesn't even get a look in! But if, by any chance, if, still... she's prepared: the Redeemer! He redeems every sin on Earth. As if it had never even happened. Yes, sirree!: we know how to read these stories, all right!
I'm envious, Yussuf, because I've never been the cause of such a heavy boulder of guilt falling on woman. Maybe a little stone in her sandal caused one a moment's discomfort; perhaps one, when I later passed her in the street, averted her gaze, but that more out of coquettishness than embarrassment; but not even one of those open scars that woman bear in their very centre comes from me. And no, it's not that I didn't want; I tried with my forefinger to touch God in woman; I believed that he was there somewhere, for where else would she have got such attractiveness from? Surely not to flesh? I used to have such anger inside me I thought I'd prod him out of his hidingplace... where else should I catch him alive if not in woman? After all, if we set about creating a human being, even if the attempt is doomed from the start, God should be around somewhere. Discreetly, of course - but undeniably. Once - just once! - I thought I'd seen him, but only from back: a sort of shadow that just passed hurriedly by me and then was gone. Wet footprints. No, now I don't hold out any hopes - with women it's a lost cause. But what about that sunset? What d'you reckon?
O.K., I'm envious because when you listen to her there are times you would even believe that angels alight on this woman's window ledge - but that's beside the point. Somehow I'll come to terms with that. By the way, in the meantime the miraculous child has already arrived; it's got a head, two hands, two legs, a chapped behind, and there's no way you'd tell him apart from the rest. After all, we're all God's little children, so why should her son not be of God. Don't get me wrong, I don't take that away from her. Every mother has the right to think that her child is miraculous. If only because of all she goes through as she's carrying it! I grant her that; what angers me is just the helplessness as not knowing what to tell the carpenter. I'm not going to tell him about the young lover, now am I? But even if I did pluck up enough courage, enough callousness, how am I going to explain to that simple man that an angel is not angel and that the Holy Spirit is not holy, and above all not a spirit either? And if I managed it, to what use would he put it? How will he get of it with those enormous claws of his? He brought me in to exorcise a demon, and the exorcism didn't happen because the demon was off. Can we be surprised if in his helplessness the carpenter himself now starts seeing angels? For the moment they're just the timid kind, they just appear to him - he can't even describe them clearly; for the moment, he's still ashamed, but for how long? He hears voices, they tell him to stick faithfully to the woman, that it's God's will. For the moment they're still whispering, but what if before long they start shouting? It's not that I'm mocking him, the carpenter; he's somehow got to get a grip on it. A beautiful story! If you saw her, how she holds that child, cheek smacked to cheek, and the carpenter scratching its heel with his broken fingernail! Coochy-coochy-coo! Redeemer!
And what about me? - not to be talking just about others all the time. 1, my dear colleague, on the pretext that I've brought a little flour from my own stores, sit in that shack of theirs and smile like an ass. I can't help it, the smile just comes by itself, like sweat. At least they're only passing through. They came for the census because the carpenter's domiciled here. Anyway, if I couldn't help him in any other way, I at least gave him some advice: I persuaded him - for their own good, mind - that that story about the miracle has got around too much and has created bad blood. They might have problems, what with the times we're living in, and it's not doing the kid a favour either, that talk about the Messiah and all that. They should go somewhere far off where nobody knows them and nobody's going to ask them anything, to Egypt for example, and live there like normal people. Let them keep the angels and the Holy Spirit to themselves. Nobody else's business. Just your normal family: father, mother and nipper. Was I wrong? A carpenter will find work anywhere. And when the girl's away from the lover perhaps she'll forget him more easily. That's what I'm telling you - I didn't tell it to the old man. All I told him was that if they were among strangers the woman would also Let more attached to him. They'll soon be off, I hope. A beautiful, dangerously beautiful story! Infectious, but I'll sweat it out of me!
And now really to the point, at last. I'm frightened, YUSSUf. You know that I consider demons to be rather felicitous and - for - us - a professionally useful metaphor for certain bodily and spiritual processes. But sometimes the thought flashes through my head: what times are these, when God evokes no more than polite respect, as if he was some sort of public office, while demons enjoy a vital and fervent faith'? Just try going into the street and asking the first passer-by, and even if it's an uneducated shepherd or a small child, he'll tell you straight off that demons have six characteristics: three in which they resemble angels, and three in which they resemble people. They resemble angels in having wings as the angels do, they fly round the world from end to end and know what's going to happen. And they resemble people in that they eat, drink, multiply and die the same as people do. And if you asked him about God, you'd find out at most that He's far away.
You know, I've been thinking about your possessed A. How is it that one person says "Truth is bad for your eyes" and another, someone else entirely, goes blind as a result. You and I, after all, can't just heap it all in the demon, whether we call him Hysterion or Cuntie. So I came up with this situation: One day a neighbour comes to see A and as they talk lets drop that Anna's husband is squandering their money with loose women. Or maybe it was this way, that A heard that the neighbour was putting such tales about and herself went round to do something about it. Either way, the neighbour reacted to her indignant complaining with the words "The truth is bad for your eyes", and by the evening A had gone blind. But let's be clear straight away that the neighbour is not witch or a faith healer, or someone gifted with supernatural powers, but a perfectly normal gossipy woman, and the phrase "The truth is bad for your eyes" is not a magic formula, but a common saying which expresses in a figurative from the banal observation that truth is unpleasant, that the person affected does not enjoy looking upon it. I am convinced that if A had understood the saying in its normal meaning - in other words if she had taken it with an open, reasoning mind, it would not have had such a devastating effect. Let's suppose that the person concerned was already susceptible to the ailment, that the demon was just lying in wait for his oppurtunity - in other words, that in her heart of hearts she knew of her husband's misdemeanours, but refused to admit the truth to herself - she pushed it from her consciousness. Where she pushed it to and what consequences it has is not something we'll go into now - let's leave it for when we meet over some wine. It's enough for the moment that the innocent phrase "The truth is bad for your eyes" suddenly took on for A the menacing idea that truth - as we know, unacknowledged, suppressed - will be bad for her eyes, in other words, that it will blind her. And, indeed, at twilight she discovers that she can't see.
Where do words get that awesome power from? That's the question; and again, it's one of those questions that seem unbelievably easy when you know the answer to them. Honestly, though, where from? Think of that beautiful carpenter's wife. Just between ourselves, that beauty just knocks you over, Yussuf, in one fell swoop. But that's not the important thing now. I'll handel that. I'm frightened of something else. I came to exorcise a demon and there was no demon. There was a happy woman, with a child and untouched, and there were angels, doves, white feathers everywhere. What happened? Well, what'? Basically, I've already said it. The young woman found within her a demon and surrendered to it; what's more the surrender was not without its consequences. As I said, a common tale - and yet, and yet... Whether the discovery so annoyed her, or she had a very high opinion of herself, the idea - herself and a demon! - was so unbearable for her that she took him out like the rubbish. She talked him out of herself, lied him out in a beautiful story. Now the story is wandering around and hidden in its belly it carries a demon. You see what I'm getting at, my dear friend? We can acknowledge that the girl haas a particular talent for sin - I don't mean for commiting a sin, but for relishing it to the full - but in the way she gets rid of it she's not a bit different from the rest of us. With child! So tangibly, so manifestly has she lived it, and yet she comes out of the experience at the other end unmarked. Now that's a miracle for you - a thousand times a day! Unique to the point of tiresomeness! Yes, my dear friend and colleague, we have soiled the world with beautiful stories where say one thing and mean another, and we walk around untouched.
This is a long letter and - what's worse - full of words. I used to write to you, Yussuf, when such a mood came over me, endless letters, without a care; with a mischievous are, as if you were a shurb at the wayside, I sprinkled on you the urine of my words - but that, I'm afraid, is over. We are not innocent either - you or I - and so I have to ask myself the question: what sort of mood was it? Was it a mood, or was it just the demons in me asking to be taken out? How much pride there is in exorcising the demons of others! And one's own? I don't know who I'm sending you, Yussuf, and whom you will find in this letter. Where is taht mother to whom I purred in her embrace? No, I'm serious, where is she? Did she exist? Is it true that I, too, once smelled sweetly as I slept? Today, of course, I can't smell myself in my sleep, and I also don't have anyone who would do it for me, but I know that in the evening, and now over this letter, I smell rank.
I can hardly bring myself to write. Words are ruined and people don't have anything else. I'm not going to inflict my despondency on you, I'll just tell you about the camel. My camel Kemal!... you see how ridiculous it sounds! Words are ruined, I tell you. What zoophiliac feeling must have driven whoever first named those animals, when in our language he chose the feminine gender for both male and female! What a loathsome demon he must have got out of himself with that! But it's done and I confess that willy-nilly I see my Kemal as female. No, not in the way, you pervert! I just feel somehow drawn to that warm fur, and there are times when I want to put my ear to it and listen to the thirst sloshing about it the empty hump. By the way, what do I need a camel for when I've got nothing for it to carry and there's more chance of a fattenedup Pharisee getting through the eye of a needle than one of our lot getting into the Kingdom of Heaven on a camel - and there's nowhere else I'm heading. But, what's to be done? She was a gift for some miraculous healing. But that's the end of it. Don't fancy a camel, by any chance? No, you're not getting her. I like my camel, and not because she doesn't have demons - far from it. On some days all the demons get her so snarled up that foam spurts out of her turned-up lips and she ploughs deep furrows into the sand with her knees. But beautiful stories, I swear, she has yet to tell me. And don't think it's because she's mute. Not mute, no! You just have to look at that oblique mouth of hers, how she states something with the upper jaw and the lower in that same instant refutes it, slips out from under the statement, takes its foundation away... Not mute, no - only speechless. But that's not the point. I like my camel, and more all the time, but I would give her to them with pleasure if they would just go. To Egypt, to Moab, to Edom, it's all the same to me. Somewhere far awy.
I'm frightened, Yussuf. I'm frightened that God doesn't give a shit about us, which means, in other words, that he has forgiven us. The only thing that can be behind that lack of interest, that indifference is universal absolution. He doesn't get any pleasure from us anymore. He's fed up of seeing to our petitions and complaints, raking through our falsehoods with his bare hands. If he created us sinful it wasn't because he enjoyed punishing, but - that's the way I feel it - to give us through sin an opportunity. So that we had in sin a measure of how far as people we had fallen short. He created us sinful, but if he now called out: "Sinners, come to me!", do you think anyone would come running? My camel, perhaps. So, what's to become of us? Beautiful stories! You bet! Let's get practising, because from now on if we long for a God, we'll have to think one up. This one's forgiven us and washed his hands of us. He's left us to our own devices. Between you and me: could he have thought up a worse Hell?

Your colleague and, I hope - even after this letter - still your friend,

Sigman



Source of the quotationVilenica, 1999

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