Devil's Workshop by Jáchym Topol Page A

there are trucks here too. I hear commands muffled by the wind, the stomp of boots, as the team comes running down the street. We duck into a passageway. I hear – can it be? – Maruška laughing. We lean against the wall of the passage.
    You wanted to go to a pub, right? she says.
    Yeah. But what about Kagan?
    Kagan can wait. We can’t get out of here now anyway. She laughs behind her hand.
    What are you laughing at?
    You.
    How come?
    You’re our expert and you don’t even know how to walk!
    Wait till she finds out that I’ve never been in a pub either.
    She raises her hand and points to the wall. Aha, a bell.
    I go to ring it.
    Wait a sec, she says. She pulls the pouch from her satchel, fishes around, we pop some pills. Maybe that’s what people eat here.
    She rings, standing on tiptoe, holding her finger on the bell. Not long and thin and nervous like Alex’s: Maruška’s sweet little finger is perfectly ordinary, the nail bare, no polish globbed on. She keeps pressing the bell until the door opens.
    We walk down a corridor, it’s quiet here, another door opens, I see a set of stairs. Light, warmth, music, conversation, the blaring of a TV. We walk down the stairs, leaving the wind, snow and fog behind.
    Salodky Falvarek
. I read the words on the pink neon sign: ‘Sweet Court’. We’re in a bar.
    Tea? says Maruška. Or what do you want?
    Again I see people’s backs, they’re squeezed into the corner, in front of a TV. The volume’s on high and a man in uniform, pale-faced with a moustache, is talking. He opens and closes his mouth, but there’s no life in his eyes – like that mannequin in the coffin, the bride. I start cracking up. Maruška elbows me in the ribs and a tall guy in front of me, also in uniform, with a leather jacket over it – you know the type – turns, frowns at me. Stop laughing, Maruška says in my ear, that’s our president.
    A wave of panic and rage runs through the people around the TV, I can feel it.
    Wow! He just declared martial law, Maruška says.
    Really? What does that mean? I act interested, seeing as it will probably be a while before I get that tea.
    Now everyone is talking, so somebody turns up the volume to full blast. Luckily I know enough Russian, since that’s what he’s speaking, to understand: ‘The German order was formed over a period of centuries, and under Hitler it reached its highest point,’ the pale-faced guy on the screen thunders. ‘Not everything associated with Hitler was bad. This is how we see our presidential government in Belarus today.’ All of a sudden a big man pops out of the swarm in front of the TV, knocks it furiously to the ground, and starts kicking and pounding it. A murmur runs through the room, somebody screams, and a few people laugh. Somebody starts to clap.
    A little fellow sweeps through the room and hops up on the bar, holding a piece of paper. Quiet! somebody shouts. He’s going to recite. Maruška tugs at my sleeve, tilts her chin towards the door. What, you want to leave? And go outside in that mess?
    Let’s go, c’mon, she says in my ear. We’re on assignment. We can’t stay here. They’ll come, you’ll see.
    Yeah, but they’re out there too. The street is covered with them!
    This way. She gestures with her chin towards the toilets. The silence is so tense now, she doesn’t want to talk. The only sound is the papers rustling in the hand of the guy on the bar. He tilts his head back, lifts his hands, and shouts:
    Kill the president!
Murder the bastard!
     
     
    Amid the voices of thunderous approval – apparently this is their favourite poem – I hear a woman shriek. The hefty guy in the leather jacket and somebody else rush the bar and try to grab the man reading, but the ones who want to keep listening form a wall and block them.
    The little guy ignores them and goes on reading:
    Kill the President!
Axe him, shoot him
Chop off his accursed head
Murder the son of a bitch!
     
     
    Now the guy on the bar is