the river glistened, the air was warm and fresh, the birds were singing, who would have thought anything bad would happen. I fed the cows and the pigs. I tossed some hay out for the horse, brought the dog’s bowl out, poured some milk into a saucer for the cat. Then I started to shave. I was halfway done when Mrs. Michała runs in:
“Oh dear Lord, Szymek! One of your chickens has been killed!”
I run out onto the road with my face half lathered up, still holding my razor, my shirt unbuttoned. I see a crowd of people standing in the road, and in the middle my chicken that’s been run over. It’s still flapping a bit. I pick it up by the legs. Is it yours, they ask. Of course it’s mine. You don’t think I know my own chicken? What’s one life worth for those cars?
“Which one did it?” I ask, not because I want to know, but it seemed wrong not to say anything at all when it was your chicken.
“He’s gone now,” someone says.
“It was a green one,” somebody else adds.
“Not green, blue.”
“What am I, blind? It was green!” They start arguing.
What was I supposed to do? I took it home and it had to be eaten.
There’s no more peace to be had in our village. Nothing but cars and cars and cars. It’s like they built the road for the cars alone and forgot about the people. But are there only cars living in the world? Maybe a time’ll come when there won’t be any more people, only cars. Then I hope the damn things’ll kill each other. I hope they have wars, worse ones than human wars. I hope they hate each other and fight and curse each other. Till one daymaybe a Car God will appear, and it’ll all make him angry and he’ll drown the lot of them. Whoever he spares will have to walk on their own two feet again. Like when the Man God appeared among people.
Because these days anyone who goes around on their own two feet is nothing but an obstacle to the cars, on the road and everywhere else. Even when you’re walking at the side of the road you feel as if all the cars are driving right through you. Your heart’s in your mouth. Not that you’re afraid of dying. It’s just that dying from a car is no kind of death. Even the memory of a death like that, it’s as if someone had just spat on the road. Yeah, he got run over. But does that mean the same as, he’s dead? Is there eternity after that kind of death? Plus, they honk and make gestures and wave their arms from behind the windshield, and a good few of them wind the window down and call you every name under the sun. As if you were the lowest of the low, because you’re on foot. A person’s legs don’t mean anything anymore. Time was, whole armies went to war on foot. And they won. And people said, there’s nothing like foot soldiers. Or if there’s a pool of rainwater on the road they’ll even deliberately try and splash you. Then the guy that’s done it laughs at you from his car, the jackass. If his woman’s with him she laughs too. If he’s got kids, the little bastards have a ball at your expense.
You know, if you could get ahold of one of those sons of bitches, you could grab one of those cars like a sheaf of hay and hoist it off the road into the field. But do you think any of them stop? They’re only strong when they’re speeding by. And where are they rushing off to? The sky’s the same everywhere, and no one can get away from their own destiny, even in a car.
These days there’s no telling how you’re supposed to walk on the road. They say on the left. But push comes to shove, all that means is you’re looking at death face-on instead of having your back turned. Otherwise no one would even know you’re walking there, that’s how low you’ve fallen, man. They can see you or not see you, it’s up to them. A car’s lights aren’t eyes.There you are swinging your lantern in front of every car like a fool, like you were begging it not to kill you.
And to think that when we were young men, after a dance it’d take
“Oh dear Lord, Szymek! One of your chickens has been killed!”
I run out onto the road with my face half lathered up, still holding my razor, my shirt unbuttoned. I see a crowd of people standing in the road, and in the middle my chicken that’s been run over. It’s still flapping a bit. I pick it up by the legs. Is it yours, they ask. Of course it’s mine. You don’t think I know my own chicken? What’s one life worth for those cars?
“Which one did it?” I ask, not because I want to know, but it seemed wrong not to say anything at all when it was your chicken.
“He’s gone now,” someone says.
“It was a green one,” somebody else adds.
“Not green, blue.”
“What am I, blind? It was green!” They start arguing.
What was I supposed to do? I took it home and it had to be eaten.
There’s no more peace to be had in our village. Nothing but cars and cars and cars. It’s like they built the road for the cars alone and forgot about the people. But are there only cars living in the world? Maybe a time’ll come when there won’t be any more people, only cars. Then I hope the damn things’ll kill each other. I hope they have wars, worse ones than human wars. I hope they hate each other and fight and curse each other. Till one daymaybe a Car God will appear, and it’ll all make him angry and he’ll drown the lot of them. Whoever he spares will have to walk on their own two feet again. Like when the Man God appeared among people.
Because these days anyone who goes around on their own two feet is nothing but an obstacle to the cars, on the road and everywhere else. Even when you’re walking at the side of the road you feel as if all the cars are driving right through you. Your heart’s in your mouth. Not that you’re afraid of dying. It’s just that dying from a car is no kind of death. Even the memory of a death like that, it’s as if someone had just spat on the road. Yeah, he got run over. But does that mean the same as, he’s dead? Is there eternity after that kind of death? Plus, they honk and make gestures and wave their arms from behind the windshield, and a good few of them wind the window down and call you every name under the sun. As if you were the lowest of the low, because you’re on foot. A person’s legs don’t mean anything anymore. Time was, whole armies went to war on foot. And they won. And people said, there’s nothing like foot soldiers. Or if there’s a pool of rainwater on the road they’ll even deliberately try and splash you. Then the guy that’s done it laughs at you from his car, the jackass. If his woman’s with him she laughs too. If he’s got kids, the little bastards have a ball at your expense.
You know, if you could get ahold of one of those sons of bitches, you could grab one of those cars like a sheaf of hay and hoist it off the road into the field. But do you think any of them stop? They’re only strong when they’re speeding by. And where are they rushing off to? The sky’s the same everywhere, and no one can get away from their own destiny, even in a car.
These days there’s no telling how you’re supposed to walk on the road. They say on the left. But push comes to shove, all that means is you’re looking at death face-on instead of having your back turned. Otherwise no one would even know you’re walking there, that’s how low you’ve fallen, man. They can see you or not see you, it’s up to them. A car’s lights aren’t eyes.There you are swinging your lantern in front of every car like a fool, like you were begging it not to kill you.
And to think that when we were young men, after a dance it’d take
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