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Kopcsay, Márius: Home (Domov in English)

Portre of Kopcsay, Márius

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Domov (Slovak)

Zazvonil zvonec. Muchovi sa zazdalo, že sa začala vojna. Ale boli to len sťahováci. Manželka už bola hore, prepletala sa pomedzi škatule s pobalenými knihami, šatami, dokumentmi, kozmetikou a pohármi. Sťahováci sa na to všetko nedôverčivo dívali.
„Toto všetko máme sťahovať?“ hovorili si. Tak ako každý deň, i dnes sa cítili zaskočení svojou prácou.
„Dnes nejdete do práce?“ pýtal sa Muchu do telefónu jeho nadriadený Gulášik. „Všetci vás tu čakajú.“
„Ja sa dnes predsa sťahujem,“ habkal Mucha ospalo.
„Hej?“ povedal na to Gulášik. „Tak potom zajtra. Zajtra už budete presťahovaný? Zajtra už prídete?“
Mucha si varil kávu, ale uvedomil si, že kuchynský stôl nie je pripravený na sťahovanie, lebo je zaprataný haraburdím. Poodkladal teda rýchlo haraburdie a šetrne robotníkom oznámil, že v kuchyni je ešte nejaký nábytok, ktorý by bolo treba odviezť. Vyšiel na balkón, bolo veľmi príjemne, zapálil si cigaretku a díval sa na lesy, ktoré sa už kde-tu začínali zelenať. Priviazal na balkóne psa, aby sa sťahovákom nemotal pod ťažkými nohami.
„Keď sa sťahovala Gizela,“ povedala pred pár dňami svokra, „veľmi zle sa pobalila. Veľmi zle, aj tí sťahováci sa sťažovali, že mala samé malé taštičky a škatuľky.“
Bolo vidieť, že svokra je na sťahovanie svojej dcéry, zaťa a vnuka zvedavá, rada by tiež vedela, do akých škatuliek a taštičiek si vopchali svoj byt, ale nepozvali ju, a tak sa to nikdy nedozvie. O chvíľu bol byt prázdny, odhalili sa pestré farby tapiet, ktoré si sem Muchovci dali iba štvrť roka pred sťahovaním povylepovať. Bol teplý slnečný jarný deň, nik netušil, že posledný - ďalej už bude iba vietor a dážď. V prázdnom byte ostali dôležité veci (pár kníh, doklady a starý počítač, dvaosemšestka so štvormegovým harddiskom, vo vnútri ktorého spočívali Muchove články od decembra 1996), takisto i kuchynský riad a jedlo, ktoré sa nestihlo pobaliť. To všetko sa odvezie poobede, alebo zajtra, alebo cez víkend osobným autom.
Sťahováci už zasa zvonili, všetko je naložené, môže sa ísť. Do sťahovacieho autobusu nastúpili Mucha, jeho žena a dieťa. Autobus sa pohol.
„Prečo ideme tak pomaly?“ pýtal sa syn.
„Aby sme niečo nestratili alebo nerozbili,“ odvetil mu otecko.
Prišli do mesta na Binderovu ulicu, kde mali bývať. Binderovej ulice sa boja všetci sťahováci, pretože je úzka.
„Ako tam len vojdeme?“ hovorili si medzi sebou. „Zbúrame dačo?“
Napokon stačilo zvalcovať iba jeden zlatý dážď a obrovský červeno-žltý sťahovák zacúval do brány Binderovej 1.
„Treba to vyniesť hore?“ spýtal sa jeden sťahovák azda v nádeji, že sa dočká zápornej odpovede (kdeže, my už si tie skrine povynášame sami). Ale mal smolu, ako vždy. Zasa len treba nosiť. Celý život iba nosiť. Muchova manželka išla do obchodu kúpiť pivo, aby sa sťahovákom lepšie pracovalo, Mucha odviezol dieťa k babke, aby dospelým neprekážalo. (Neviezol ho, pravdaže, Mucha osobne, pretože nemali auto, odviezol ich kamarát Jaro, ktorý niesol do Petržalky akési pneumatiky, po ktoré museli ísť ešte predtým do Prievozu, do garáže, od ktorej mal kľúče svokor v Lamači.) Potom išiel Mucha do starého prázdneho bytu pobaliť všetko ostatné. Tzv. dôležité veci (počítač, pár kníh, doklady) už boli prichystané na holom linoleu, zato však v kuchyni bola situácia katastrofálna - v špajzi sa váľali kečupy, na zemi boli porozhadzované igelitové tašky, symbolizujúce stovky nákupov a tisícky vyhodených korún. Mucha triedil horčice, korenia, načaté i nenačaté sáčky s cukrom a múkou. Potraviny, ktoré ešte stáli zato, si nachystal do nového bytu - napr. kávu alebo zemiakové cesto v prášku s trvanlivosťou až do augusta 1998. Igelitové tašky sa množili, ešteže to svokra nevidí. Pripadal si horší ako Gizela. Prišla za ním manželka, ktorá dosiaľ dozerala na vykladanie v novom byte. Dvom im išlo všetko od ruky - povyhadzovali zbytočné rárohy, postŕhali záclony, odmontovali lustre a vešiaky. Ich kroky na linoleu vo vyprázdnenom byte sa rozliehali ako v kostole.
„Dobrý deň, tak ako?“ ozvala sa do telefónu Škvarková z realitky. „Už ste sa odsťahovali? Sľúbili ste mi, že zavoláte.“
„Práve dnes sme uvoľnili byt,“ povedal s hrdosťou Mucha.
„Takže o päť minút môžeme prísť a odovzdáte byt novým majiteľom?“ švitorila Škvarková.
„Nuž, ale veď, máme tu ešte nejaké veci. Ale môžeme ich dať v kuchyni do kúta, aby nezavadzali, keď si tu budú chcieť vymaľovať.“
„Prosím vás, oni si chcú skutočne prevziať byt a ihneď vymeniť zámku. Ten byt musí byť prázdny ešte dnes,“ povedala dôrazne Škvarková.
„Ale, teda...“ hovoril Mucha.
„Takže kedy? O tretej? O štvrtej? O piatej? O šiestej? O siedmej? O ôsmej?“ nástojila Škvarková.
„O šiestej,“ vzdychol si zaskočený Mucha a vrátil sa ku kečupom a lekvárom - teraz kritériá triedenia zjednodušil a viac-menej všetko hádzal do koša, dokonca i sáčkové polievky a knedle v prášku.
„Dnes nič nenapíšete?“ volali Muchovi z prvých novín (odborno-politických).
„Už sú hotové litografie?“ volali z druhých (odborno-inžinierskych).
„Už je zajtra? Ešte je dnes? Ešte sa sťahujete?“ ozval sa opäť Gulášik z odborno-budovateľského magazínu.
Zástupcovia všetkých periodík sa postupne zmierili so skutočnosťou, že práve dnes sa Mucha sťahuje. Zavolali ešte zopárkrát, a potom dali pokoj. Zavolala aj svokra, že dieťa jej plače, zavýja a nevie, čo s ním má robiť. Našťastie sa práve kamarát Jaro vracal z Petržalky s novými pneumatikami a tak Muchovi pomohol naložiť a odviezť dôležité veci (počítač, pár kníh, doklady), a potom spolu mohli zájsť aj do Petržalky po uplakané dieťa.
„Neviem, čo mu je,“ lamentovala svokra. „Asi je chorý, má tenké pančuchy a ťahalo mu na nohy, aj na uši, lebo má nejaké tenké uši, aj srdce mu tak čudne skáče a chytá sa za cikulíka, aj hlavu nakláňa nabok. To ani nie je on.“
Syn v aute zaspal, Mucha ho vyniesol do prázdneho bytu. Položil na zaprášené linoleum v prázdnej obývačke svoju koženú bundu a na ňu uložil dieťatko. Spalo ako anjelik, zatiaľ čo okolo neho vrcholila deštrukcia. Priestor, v ktorom doteraz synček vyrastal, sa menil na nepoznanie. Ozval sa zvonček, Mucha sa chcel ešte vysrať, ale nestihol. Zvonček zúrivo zvonil, prišli noví majitelia so Škvarkovou z realitnej kancelárie, Muchovi sa všetko krútilo v bruchu, zvonček stále zvonil, hoci návšteva, vlastne noví majitelia, už boli vnútri.
„To sem já, no to sem já,“ hovoril dakto do domového telefónu, a ten dakto bol malý dodatočný sťahovák s malou dodávkou a malou tupou tvárou, ktorého si narýchlo objednali, aby previezol zvyšné veci.
„Prepáčte, ale chvíľku to musíte nosiť sám,“ hovoril mu Mucha. „Prišli noví nájomníci, musíme im odovzdať byt...“
Mucha si chcel naposledy zapáliť a vypiť kávu na svojej lodžii s výhľadom na okolité kopce.
„Ježiš, vy ste tu nechali zavareninové poháre,“ zmarila jeho úmysel Škvarková. „No, im asi nanič nebudú, rýchlo ich vyhoďme!“
Škvarková hádzala poháre do igelitových tašiek, potom ešte rukami poutierala špinu okolo smetného koša a rýchlo zhltla útržok starých novín, aby nešpatili dojem z bytu. Noví majitelia, hoci si už byt predtým poobzerali, prehliadali si ho i dnes mlčanlivými skúmavými pohľadmi. Občas sa na seba veľavravne pozreli, alebo i potichu prehovorili.
„To je tapeta, táto tapeta?“ pýtal sa nový majiteľ, a keď chcel Mucha odpovedať, nový majiteľ si zamrmlal: „No čo už, dáko to dáme dolu. A to je stena, táto stena? Takto ste to tu mali? Aha. A ten smetný kôš? To tu akože nechávate? Ale veď sa nám zíde. Nemusíte ho vynášať, my si ho už vynesieme, no čo už. A tie poháre? Tie predsa nepotrebujeme. Aha, tie si beriete. A tú dlážku, to ste si dali naschvál takto? Veď to sa dá vytrhať. A ten výhľad z okna? Nebáli ste sa, keď ste sa vyklonili? To sa dá zastrieť. Ale tie žalúzie... To ste si vy vyberali? Aha. A toto nie je tapeta? Táto žltá, to ste si dali vymaľovať? Naschvál? No chvalabohu, to pôjde ľahko dolu.“
Mucha chcel vyniesť smetný kôš, aby unikol neprehľadnej situácii. Zájde ku kontajnerom, rozbehne sa do blízkeho lesa a pobeží až na Kamzík a odtiaľ do Karpát, nikdy sa nevráti.
„Netreba ho vyniesť, pán Mucha, počujete ma?“ napomenula ho Škvarková. „Pán Mucha, počujete, tie poháre si zoberte a cestou ich vyhoďte. Pán Mucha, ten podpis, ten podpis, ešte ste sa nepodpísali.“
Celí popletení sa poberali na odchod, nový nájomník si už vyťahoval skrutkovač, išiel meniť zámku. Škvarková sa ponáhľala, o siedmej odovzdáva ďalší byt, Muchova žena plakala. Malý sťahovák pred domom zúrivo vytruboval, tašky už mal nanosené na korbe, len cestujúci chýbali.


Home (English)

The doorbell rang. Mucha thought war must have broken out, but it was only the removal men. His wife was already up, weaving her way between boxes of books, clothes, papers, cosmetics and glasses. The removal men surveyed all this with an air of incredulity.
„We’re meant to take all that?“ they asked themselves. As on every other day, their work seemed to come as a surprise.
„Aren’t you coming to work today?“ Gulášik, Mucha’s boss, asked him over the phone. „Everyone here’s waiting for you.“
„But I’m moving house today,“ Mucha stammered, still half asleep.
„Are you?“ Gulášik responded. „Then tomorrow. Will you have moved by tomorrow? Will you be coming in tomorrow?“
When Mucha was making coffee, he realised that the kitchen table was not prepared for removal, for it was covered with junk. He quickly cleared this away and gently broke the news to the workers that there was still some furniture in the kitchen to be collected. He went out on to the balcony, where it was very pleasant. He lit a cigarette and gazed towards the woods, which here and there were already turning green. He tied the dog to the balcony railing, so it wouldn’t get under anyone’s heavy feet.
„When Gizela moved,“ his mother-in-law had said a few days earlier, „she packed things up very badly. Very badly. The removal men complained about the pile of little bags and boxes as well.“
It was clear that his mother-in-law would have liked to see her daughter, son-in-law and grandson moving house and to know what kind of boxes and bags they’d crammed their flat into, but they didn’t invite her, so she would never know. Soon the flat was empty, revealing the brightly-coloured wallpaper the Mucha family had put up only three months previously. It was a warm sunny day in spring and no one guessed that it would be the last such day – after that it would be all wind and rain. The important things (a few books, personal documents and an old computer, a two-eight-six with a four-mega hard disk containing Mucha’s articles after December 1996) remained behind in the empty flat, along with the kitchen utensils and any food they had not had time to pack. All this would be carried away by car in the afternoon, or next day, or over the weekend.
The removal men rang the doorbell again to announce that everything was loaded up and they could get a move on. Mucha, his wife and child got into the removal van. It started off.
„Why are we going so slowly?“ their son asked.
„So as not to lose or break anything,“ his father replied.
They arrived at Binder Street in the town, which is where they were going to live. Binder Street is one of those that scares all removal men, because it is so narrow.
„How are we going to get in there?“ they asked each other. „Are we going to demolish anything?“ In the end they got away with steamrollering one forsythia bush and the huge red and yellow removal van backed up to the door to No.1, Binder Street.
„Does this lot need carrying upstairs?“ asked one removal man, perhaps in the hope of a negative reply (oh, no, we’ll carry these cupboards up ourselves). But he was out of luck, as always. Once more they’d have to do the carrying. All their lives, nothing but carrying. Mucha’s wife popped out to the shop to buy some beer, to make their work easier. Mucha drove their child to its grandmother, so he wouldn’t get in the adults’ way. (Of course, it wasn’t actually Mucha doing the driving, because they didn’t have a car, but it was his friend Jaro, who was taking some tyres to the Petržalka district, which first had to be collected from a garage in Prievoz, the keys to which were with his father-in-law, who lived in Lamač on the opposite side of the town. Then Mucha returned to the old, empty flat to pack up the remaining things. The so-called „important things“ (the computer, a couple of books and personal documents) had already been prepared in a pile on the bare linoleum, whereas the situation in the kitchen was disastrous – there were bottles of ketchup lying around in the pantry and plastic bags scattered all over the floor, symbolizing hundreds of shopping sprees and thousands of wasted crowns. Mucha sorted the mustard from the spices, the opened and full packets of sugar and flour. He prepared the food still worth saving to take to the new flat – coffee, for instance, or powdered potato with a best-before date of August 1998. The plastic bags multiplied – it was a good thing his mother-in-law couldn’t see them. „Worse than Gizela“, he thought. He was joined by his wife, who up to now had been overseeing the unloading in the new flat. With the two of them at it, things went quicker – they threw out useless junk, took down the curtains, dismantled the lights and coat hooks. Their footsteps on the linoleum echoed in the empty flat, like in a church.
„Hello, so how’s it going?“ the voice of Škvarková from the estate agent’s was heard over the phone. „Have you moved out? You promised to call.“
„We’ve just moved out today,“ said Mucha proudly.
„Then we can come round in five minutes and you’ll hand the flat over to the new owner?“ Škvarková chirped.
„Well, we’ve still got some things here. But we can put them in the corner of the kitchen, so they won’t get in the way if they want to begin painting.“
„Look here, they’re serious about taking over the flat and immediately changing the lock. That flat must be empty today,“ Škvarková said emphatically.
„But…“ said Mucha.
„So when? At three? At four? At five? At six? At seven? At eight?“ Škvarková insisted.
„At six,“ sighed Mucha, still feeling put out and he returned to the ketchup and jam – but now he simplified his sorting criteria and threw more or less everything into the waste bin, even the packet soups and powdered dumplings.
„Aren’t you going to write anything today?“ someone called Mucha from the first (professional –political) newspaper.
„Are the lithographs ready?“ they called from a second (professional – engineering).
„Is it tomorrow? Or is it still today? Are you still moving?“ Gulášik rang once more from the professional building magazine.
The representatives of all these periodicals gradually had to accept the fact that Mucha was moving that day. They called again a couple of times and then they left him in peace. Mucha’s mother-in-law also rang to say that the boy was crying, howling actually, and she didn’t know what to do with him. Fortunately his friend Jaro had just returned from Petržalka with his new tyres and so he helped Mucha load up and take away the important things (the computer, a couple of books, personal documents) and then they could also go to Petržalka to collect the tearful child.
„I don’t know what’s wrong with him,“ his mother-in-law lamented. „He’s probably ill, he’s wearing thin leggings and he must have had a draught around his legs and ears – he’s got rather thin ears – and his heart is thudding in a peculiar way and he keeps catching hold of his willy and his head’s leaning to one side. It’s not like him at all.“
Once in the car, his son fell asleep and Mucha carried him up into the empty flat. He laid his leather jacket down on the dusty linoleum in the empty living room and put the young child on it. He slept like a little angel, while the destruction around him reached its climax. The space in which his little son had grown up so far was transformed beyond recognition. The doorbell rang, Mucha had wanted to have a crap, but there wasn’t time. The bell rang furiously, the new owners had arrived with Škvarková from the estate agent’s; Mucha’ intestines were churning, but the bell kept ringing, even when the visitors – the new owners, in fact – were already inside.
„S’me, s’me“ someone said into the door phone. And that someone was a small extra removal man with a small van and a small, gormless face, who they had hurriedly summoned to carry off the remaining things.
„I’m sorry, but you’ll have to do the carrying by yourself for a while,“ Mucha told him. „The new tenants have arrived and I have to hand over the flat to them…“
Mucha wanted to have a last cigarette and coffee on his loggia with a view of the surrounding hills.
„Christ, you’ve left a pile of glass jars here,“ Škvarková exclaimed, spoiling his plans. „They probably won’t be any use to them. Let’s quickly throw them away!“
Škvarková stuffed the jars into plastic bags, wiped away the dirt around the waste bin with her bare hands and quickly swallowed a scrap of old newspaper, so the impression of the flat would not be spoiled. The new owners, although they had already looked around the flat on an earlier occasion, now scrutinized it in silence. From time to time they exchanged meaningful glances or quiet comments.
„Is this wallpaper?“ asked the new owner and before Mucha could reply, he muttered, „Well, can’t be helped, we’ll scrape it off. This here’s a wall? Was it here before? Aha, and this wastepaper basket? You’re leaving that here? But we can make use of that. You needn’t bother to empty it, we’ll do that, if you haven’t had time. And those glass jars? We won’t be needing those. Ah, you’re taking them with you. And the floor tiling, did you choose to have it like that? Well, it can be taken up. And that view from the window? Weren’t you afraid to lean out? That can be covered up. But those venetian blinds… Did you choose them? Aha. And this isn’t wallpaper? This yellow – you had it painted like that? Deliberately? Well, it’ll be easy to get off, thank goodness.“
Mucha wanted to empty the wastepaper basket outside to escape from the chaos. He would go out to the dustbin, run off into the nearby forest and keep running to the top of Kamzik hill and from there into the Carpathians and never come back.
„There’s no need to empty it, Mr. Mucha, do you hear me?“ Škvarková reminded him sharply. „Mr. Mucha, are you listening, take these jars and throw them in the bin on your way out. Mr. Mucha, your signature, your signature, you haven’t signed this yet.“
Thoroughly confused, they got ready to depart. The new tenant had already produced a screwdriver and was about to change the lock. Škvarková was in a hurry, because she had to hand over another flat at seven. Mucha’s wife was in tears. The small removal man was hooting furiously in front of the house; he had everything loaded up in the back, just the passengers were missing.
„We didn’t get a chance to say goodbye to the flat,“ Mucha’s wife sniffed, when they were out in the street. „And our poor little Johnny slept through it all.“
„What are you complaining about, it was your idea,“ Mucha told her. „Your dream’s come true.“
„Yerall comin’ wi’ me?“ asked the small removal man, staring disapprovingly at the woman with the sleeping child in her arms. Ye cahn’all fit in!“
The windows on the eighth floor were already being opened, the new owners unscrewing the blinds and furiously throwing them out, tearing off the wallpaper, pulling up the linoleum, airing the rooms to get rid of the stink of the previous owners, disinfecting the tiled floor so their daughter wouldn’t catch any diseases from the kid who’d been sleeping there.
„I’ll get in the back,“ said Mucha. „I must just go and empty the letterbox. There’s something in it.“
The only thing in the letterbox was a gas bill. The word „gas“ on the bill was abbreviated for clarity to „gs“. So the „gs“ still had to be paid for.
Mucha picked up the frightened dog, which resisted and squirmed as if they were taking him to be put down, and then scrambled up into the back with him. Through the hermetically sealed, bullet-proof window of the van Mucha could see his wife and child sitting up front next to the removal man, who was just starting the engine. Mucha tapped on the glass, but it was the removal man who turned round and gave him a stupid, querying look (what’s the tapping for?). Then he moved off.
By eight in the evening everything had been carried up into the new, cold, flat. The air had cooled and it was getting dark. The child began to whimper. Mucha was a man of action, so he arranged three chairs opposite each other, cleared the surrounding area, switched on the television and turned on the lamp. His wife prepared a bed for him on the floor, saying she and the child would sleep on the divan, which was standing in the corner of the room now crowded with furniture. Mucha was so tired that he began to doze on his makeshift bed. There were draughts coming from all sides.
„I want to go home,“ said their little son.
„Shut up, don’t keep whining,“ his mother replied.
„You’ve got what you wanted, you’re living in town, so keep your hair on,“ Mucha hissed at her. As he dozed, he kept hearing his wife rummaging around for something and cursing because she couldn’t find it. His sleep was shallow and, like an animal, the slightest sound woke him up; he felt an instinctive duty to guard his family in a strange environment. The noise of the lift was enough to jolt him awake, as were footsteps and the barking of a dog on the stairs outside. Then he thought he heard a thud and his son crying.
„Johnny’s fallen out of bed,“ his wife said.
When he woke up in the morning, it was cold and he had a sore throat. He asked his wife whether Johnny had fallen out of bed in the night.
„In the night? Johnny? Out of bed?“ his wife replied.



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