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A Cage Full of Angels
by Andrzej
Zimniak
translated by
Michael Kandel
I hawked a gob in his navel.
It takes aim, but I have
aim too.
Spitting in one's
bellybutton is an insult not punishable by law. The insulted party, as a
consequence, gains the right to respond physically--i.e., his response also is
not punishable by law. No legal code covers the escalation that ensues. A moral
code maybe. I've always been careful about such details, and so far it has paid
off.
Of late I had been
visiting a number of colorful, so-so, and totally dead towns in search of the
Big Bad Nigger. His fame had preceded him and followed him, but I was in no
rush. I knew that sooner or later we would meet and that the meeting would be as
amusing as it was of use. Definitely of use to me, possibly to him as well.
I had heard much about
him. They said he could bang a woman for two days without getting off, kill a
dog with two fingers, and remove a punk's head by karate chop with practically
no room to swing. Even if only a tenth of that was true, he would make a nice
coot.
So I find the guy finally
in a resort town as bleached as a clam shell, where combed couples walk the
boardwalk and available houris pose waiting on the beach. Half the people
assembled in the evening at a dive where there were matches.
The Big Bad Nigger turned
out to be white, with olive skin and a torso glistening with oil. He wore only a
studded vest and high boots. Before him a row of beer bottles had been set up;
these he sent flying at the delighted crowd with the aid of his gargantuan whang.
Obviously getting your beer in midair like that cost more. The guy had a topless
stacked chick helping him, to keep him inspired. Ridiculous.
"You publicly insult the
young lady," I said quietly but loud enough to be heard. "Even for your type
that's low."
The Big Bad Nigger stopped
smiling, or rather, the grimace of a smile froze on his big-jawed boxer's face.
His out-of-focus eyes showed the presence of drugs in the blood. Scarcely had I
formed the thought that he would be of little value when he grabbed a bottle and
hurled it at me. This time normally, by hand.
Just before the missile
reached me, I bent back, caught the bottle by its bottom, and resumed a vertical
position. I popped the cap, took a swallow, and flung the beer away. It bounced
along the floor, leaving a trail of foam.
"I only need my hands," I
said, raising them. They were small. I was in the form then of a slender Slavic
youth with a misshapen nose, a nondescript face, and a shock of straw-colored
hair.
That's when I went and
hawked in his navel.
The Big Bad Nigger was
not entirely without class, however. He didn't sputter or come at me with
furious curses. I gave him a little show of my stuff, as a pro forma warning. A
touch of sportsmanship doesn't hurt when one has attained a certain level.
My opponent now broke into
a smile designed to raise goose bumps. It got so quiet in the place, you could
hear the beer gurgling from the fallen bottle. With one hand he pushed aside the
table that held the bottles, with the other the stool that held the topless
stacked chick, who was afraid to move. The guy's whang still poked stubbornly,
respectably, from between the tassels of his vest.
"Apologize, child,
apologize very nicely, and I will spare your life," he said.
His voice was ragged; he
clearly wasn't looking after himself. Well, that was his business. But why take
me for some snot-nosed kid?
"Go lick your stupid ass
if you are contortionist enough," I replied, too loud to leave him any choice. I
was growing a little impatient.
He straightened his vest,
not with his hands but with a shake of his shoulders and back, as if to feel the
knife sheath sewn there.
You benighted dork, I
thought. What now? Either you're hopeless or trying to keep your nose clean. Or
are you just smarter than I think?
He stepped heavily, like a
machine. When he came within striking distance, he lifted a leg, but so
tentatively that anyone could have seen through it. I watched his arms raise,
and then I received such a kick, it sent me sailing into a table, which broke
into pieces.
I was in rapture! The Big
Bad Nigger was a master of the multiple feint. It was more than worth all the
tracking down to learn this new thing. Still in the air, I took careful note of
his technique, recorded the moves and practiced them in my mind. Excellent,
excellent!
Meanwhile the massive
torso was above me. The Big Bad Nigger didn't hurry, assuming his opponent was
stunned. He assumed wrong, having no knowledge of the coots working full steam
inside. I had twenty of the finest in me, and it was thanks to them that my mind
was clear and muscles functional throughout. Thanks to them, I practically never
tired and was faster than anyone.
He bent over, to deal his
famous chop with no swing, but I was ahead of him. Like lightning I hit with
fist and knee. Both connected, though the fist sank into chin a bit more solidly
than the knee into crotch. He stepped back, and I walloped him also in the
noggin, at a very specific spot. He should have been royally dazed, but this was
a tough customer. He straightened, then crouched in a way that let him reach to
his back. His free hand hung toward one of his high boots.
A true master of the
multiple feint. I couldn't tell which move would be the real attack. I kicked
the wrist of the hand reaching down, positioning myself also to parry a blow
from the other. I did well, because a stiletto gleamed. It had been concealed
not behind him but in the front of his vest, and was drawn out by one of the
vest studs. I managed to duck under the blade, and I hit twice the hand that
held it, not hard but with precision. Then I twisted the hand to his back until
joints cracked, and jabbed him in the neck. Now I could apply the classic
strangle. Yes, it had been an interesting fight.
"I will throttle you now,
and no one will object," I said into his ear. "But you can save yourself, you
still can."
He heaved twice, tried to
use his legs as levers. None of that worked, it couldn't now. He rasped, and his
eyes rolled up.
"It doesn't matter," I
continued in a whisper only he could hear, "that you don't understand. Just
think the thought that you agree to become my coot, and all will be well. I know
how to do this. The free choice of a free member of a free society."
What had to happen
happened. The thing that always took place. The body of the Big Bad Nigger lost
its vigor and substance, shriveled, shrank, and its content departed from it. It
dwindled to the size of a doll, of a smoke ring blown from a pipe, till it was a
pink creature with no clear shape that jumped inside me. My head spun, and I
felt a rush of strength. It was time for my next change.
I left the gaping crowd,
their beers in their hands, and ran to the back. I burst through a door to the
men's room. On the white tiles was the reflection of my face, but no longer my
face, pulled and stretched by rippling convulsions. My whole body burned, hurt,
something shifted within, overflowed, swelled, grew. I made the wish to be tall
this time, lean, swarthy, with brown hair. I turned my jeans and T-shirt into a
tweedy suit the color of steel. Added a worsted tie, blue: good. A gray shirt
with a blue stripe: just right. I felt power; the twenty-one little guys had
done with job well.
A few out-of-breath men
came running in. They opened the doors to the stalls.
"You didn't see a blond
kid in jeans, did you?" asked one of them.
"He looked in, but left
when he saw me. He was in a hurry," I informed them in a warm baritone, and took
my leave of the place at a comfortable saunter.
#
The knock at the door was
cautious, therefore suspicious. It announced the arrival of weakness, which
always complicates things unnecessarily.
I put the shiv in my
collar, picked up the gat, stood in the far corner, and opened the door by
remote.
The guy who entered was
stocky and had furtive eyes. His left sleeve rode a little high, so he must have
been carrying a sizable piece in a shoulder holster; the right pant leg hung a
little low, so there was probably also something stuck in his belt.
Apparently I didn't seem
the boy scout type, because he raised both hands and said, "Look, I don't want
trouble."
"Beat it, Byron. You're
still here at the count of ten, you'll have trouble."
I went and put down my
gun. We were too close now for him to get the drop on me.
"You're Enkel. We know all
about you." His voice was hesitant. Everything he did was hesitant.
That clarified much. The
first person plural used to intimidate indicates a lack of confidence in
oneself, the need to establish that one is part of a fearsome collective. My
visitor was a low-ranking government official. To a likelihood of 99%.
I pretended to attack,
went at him. In a blink I had my fingers around his fat neck. He reached for his
armpit automatically, the overstuffed dope, because I could have knocked any
weapon from his hands before he even thought of touching a trigger. But I was
being too careful, it turned out. The guy's holder was empty.
Without unnecessary words
I pointed to the belt weighted on the right. He opened his blazer and showed a
ring of keys. Even the handcuffs had been left with his pals on the other side
of the door.
"All right," I sighed and
sat down. "Make it short, bureaucrat."
"Matthias, federal agent,"
he said, showing a badge. He smoothed his clothes and sat like a girl, crossing
his legs. Bad enough he was a faggot, he had to be ugly too.
"What do you want?" I
looked at my watch. I had it up to here with these queers from the government
and other terribly vital organizations. God knows how they found me, recognized
me.
"I bring an offer of
collaboration. It's very--"
"Don't tell me. A special
assignment, dangerous but lucrative. With a monthly retainer equal to a prime
minister's pension. And of course the most expensive broads free. What are you
throwing in this time?"
"A villa by the sea, in
the mountains, anywhere. You pick the spot, we do the rest."
"Retirement benefits and
health care?"
"Goes without saying." His
eyes gleamed; he was beginning to feel the possessor of the blank check that
would tame this beast. Ridiculous.
"Scram." I got up and
opened the door. "Now."
"But . . . I don't
understand . . ."
"You don't understand
scram? I'll explain it to you, my pet. In a way you'll remember for the rest of
your wretched life."
#
I waded through the underbrush,
to get away from the noise on the beach. Here, under the trees, not that long
ago a little boy played, and dreamed grand and lovely things. Except it turned
out the world respected only the scum and thugs.
Actually, it wasn't quite
that way. The little boy dreamed only of stuffing himself and playing and maybe
getting into a little trouble. He also wanted to be strong, strong enough not to
be afraid. Fear, he remembered, was a stab of ice through the chest. To tell the
truth, none of that had changed, one just might put it now in different words.
I went deeper into the
woods. I was god-awful sober that day and didn't even want to get laid. Maybe
that was the reason for this sentimental mood. I was always Mr. Tough as Nails
in front of others, but here, in this isolated spot, I felt lonely, I felt safe.
Where were my friends, the
companions of my childhood games? Well, they were with me; we worked together.
When we grew up and became young men, I killed them all, but not all the way,
because what would have been the point of that? After I learned the Major
Secret, I knew I could make coots of them, so they were inside me now and
followed all my orders. Coots have to obey. All they can say is "Yes sir!"
"Sultan, are you there?" I
asked their leader.
"Yes sir!"
"Would you like to talk?"
"Yes sir!"
"I permit you to speak."
"Yes sir!"
From my height the coots
were peabrains, highly useful taken together but still peabrains. I would need
to release Sultan, my best friend, otherwise forget about conversation. Release
him? No, better for me to drop in on them. Just for a minute.
It's easy to become a
coot. I simply think I'd like to be one, and there I am, inside myself, packed
into a skyblue pink landscape, surrounded by a cheering crowd of wheyey
critters. I was semitransparent myself, but my body was elsewhere after all.
Sultan had become just a
runt, but it was him all right! His villainous puss beamed with genuine joy when
he took me in his arms and hugged me tight and tigher.
"Enough, old guy, you'll
squeeze the life out of me," I said, moved, trying to extricate myself. I didn't
remember such friendly hugs.
He loosened his hold, but
only to hit--in the neck, in the temple. How could I have been so stupid!
Dropping in on them like this, I was no longer their master. I had let myself be
taken, like a total asshole.
I grew numb, though I
could still see okay. Sultan put the strangle on me, and the world turned gray
like cheap paper. The other coots jumped around and chanted, "Sul-tan, Sul-tan!"
He hissed in my ear, "If
you can't speak, all you need do is think, `My power is yours.'" I had let the
bastard speak, but there's no gratitude.
I didn't know if it was
possible to choke to death a soul paying a visit to its own body, but I felt
pretty dreadful, so I thought the thought that was required. He let me go then
and grew, expanded out beyond the skyblue pink firmament, and was gone, and I
saw that my body was coming to me inside. I had turned a wheyey color and was
now an ordinary coot. I could say only "Yes sir!" and had to help my Master,
whatever it took, but I could think what I liked, so I called myself every name
in the book.
#
Sultan wasn't bright. The first
evening he got riddled with so much lead that we really had to scramble to patch
in time. The bullets for us were like watermelon seeds; we swallowed them. We
filled the holes, no problem, because we were all geniuses at physiology and
metabolism, though none of us had studied it. Does anyone teach a baby how to
find the nipple?
Sultan finally put the
strangle on the pie-eyed revolver wielder, but what kind of coot is it who only
waves his hands and pretends to care? There are coots and there are coots, you
armchair strategists.
Sultan was simply not up
to it. A lousy leader, no ambition, or maybe he didn't set himself appropriate
tasks because he was simply a coward, the garden variety. I was ashamed of him,
my former best friend: he avoided encounters with the enemy, he would even turn
tail and run. I was livid when I heard people saying that the Great Enkel was
over the hill. After a while they didn't say anything at all, just spat with
disgust, meanwhile Sultan made himself scarce, covered his tracks, and kept
changing shape, strangling assorted mangy mugs who were even more craven than
he. I had no choice but to always say "Yes sir!" and in all things subordinate
myself to that pathetic hack. He got heavy on the lousiest beer, and got bags
under his eyes from the cheapest whores. Ridiculous!
Although I sat deep in his
belly, it didn't escape my notice that for a while now these shameful flights of
Sultan had become more and more despairing and random. I realized that a
tenacious someone was on his trail. My "master" was running for his life.
Once, as he lay amid
rubbish in an abandoned garret, wheezing from the dust and watching the road
through a crack in the wall, he groaned:
"He's too fast!"
"Yes sir!" I replied,
since the remark was addressed to me.
"Shut up, pig," he
snapped. He was about to launch into the usual stream of obscenities, but
stopped and thought. A pity, so late in the game. But now his mind was taking
the right path, I was sure of it. I felt warm.
"We're friends, right,
Enkel? Maybe you have an idea . . . Hsst!"
Down the road came a well
put together man in a light-colored, pressed suit. He wore a bow tie with
polkadots as red as drops of fresh blood. Bearded, tan, not in his first youth.
He stopped and looked up in our direction.
"He knows," Sultan
breathed, clenching his big sweaty fists.
The man walked off
unhurriedly.
"He knows I'm here! What
should I do? Tell me!"
"Yes sir!"
Sultan gave a roar of
rage, then freed me. He had no option, the poor bastard. I climbed out of his
neck in a pink bubble, hopped to the floor, and grew, assuming my original form
of a redheaded Irishman somewhat the worse for wear.
"But no tricks," he
cautioned with a raised pudgy finger. "I am thirty to your one."
"Ten of them you can
stuff," I said through my teeth. "They were your brilliant contribution."
"Fine, fine, old buddy."
He spread his ham hands like an angel's wings. "We'll take him together, Enkel,
Otherwise we're both dead meat."
"None of that, chiseler.
Your help here isn't worth a wet turd, you'll only get in the way. I'll handle
this guy. On condition that you give me the coots."
He stepped back, wiped his
dripping face.
"Never! Don't even try!"
"Very well. I'm leaving."
"I did not give you
permission to go," he grated.
"You can give it now." I
put out my hand. "You want to keep me, you hit first."
The stranger again
appeared in the road, his bright suit quite visible under the street lamp. He
was in no rush.
Sultan breathed heavily.
He had chosen the form of a powerful peasant, a bear of a man, but a slow bear.
More fat than muscle on him, however, layers of it, the sucker. He could still
take care of me, though, with the high-caliber rod he carried in his jacket. He
didn't do that, too afraid.
"Then I'll leave," he said
hoarsely. "You give your word you won't go after me? I've had enough. I'd like
to . . . set myself up, get an ordinary wife, enjoy a quiet fuck under the
covers, a hot dinner every day, kids to yell out. You understand?"
"No problem. My word on
it. Hand over the coots!"
The porch door creaked.
Sultan lost no time: pink dolls jumped into me, a full dozen.
"All of them!"
"But . . ."
"He's on the stairs now."
The remaining bums crawled
in clumsily, still under the influence although the party was over. The moment I
had the lot in me, I seized Sultan, my closest friend.
"But you promised!" His
face a blur with terror.
I wound up to deal him one
in the head, so of course he obligingly lifted both hands. A sucker of suckers!
I could now kick him easily and methodically in the groin and stomach, then
apply the strangle. I counted to ten and asked pleasantly:
"Would you like to be my
coot?"
He fizzled and was mine. I
would find a use for him.
I kept my red hair but got
a better build. I was now ready for action, a killing machine, a mountain of
muscle ready to pounce.
"You wish to die?" I asked
the stranger, who was standing in the doorway, slightly bent under the sloped
ceiling. Having no weapon, I approached him, alert to his smallest movement.
"I'd prefer to talk," he
said with a smile. "There's not a bad dive nearby."
It was a real smile, I
swear, not any kind of teeth baring or idiot rictus. This character had to be a
rare master of moves, so I thought to myself I'd try getting a thing or two out
of him before I finished him off. We went for shots of vodka, but I was on my
guard, doubly.
#
We took an alcove in the middle
of a flight of steps. Every now and then a waiter would come up from the gray
hole below us and hurry to the brightness of the higher floors, leaving behind
the mingled stink of sweat and fries.
I was humming with energy;
my crew of coots were at attention and waiting for their signal. Anger bubbled
in me, at Sultan, at all best friends, at the whole world. At this dude too in
the summer suit and the bow tie with the blood-red polkadots.
"You resemble a government
faggot, but you smell different," I began. "You give off something that makes
one shiver."
He held his shot glass
elegantly, between two fingers. I imagined myself banging the table, not to
break anything, just enough to send the clear liquid bouncing off the wall in a
wide spray.
"Stop that," Gabe
warned--he had told me his name was Gabe. What, for Gabriel? Ridiculous.
Incredibly, this fancy Daniel dared to raise his voice to me. "Restrain
yourself, Enkel. I have two trumps on you."
"You?" I snorted, still
deliberating on the blow to deliver. It would have to be just right, not so
strong that I would skin my knuckles, not so weak that the effect would be
measly.
"First: it was I who freed
you from Sultan."
My amazement exceeded even
my anger.
"What are you saying?"
"I've been watching you
for a long time. Your crew worked much worse under Sultan than under you, so I
put a little fear into him. It wasn't difficult."
It fit, actually. If he
had wanted to finish Sultan off, he could have done it much sooner. He was
waiting--waiting for me. I have to admit, I was not unimpressed.
"So you've been grooming
an opponent for yourself? Well, you have one now," I said, more as a ceremonial
thing than a challenge, and flicked his glass. As I had calculated, it went
flying against the wall and burst like a bomb.
"A waste of good liquor,"
Gabe remarked calmly. "Watch out next time, because up my sleeve is trump two."
I don't know how, but a
fact is a fact: his hand held a switchblade. The silver-plated knife popped from
its sheath.
I winced. "I prefer
dealing with pure steel. Trinkets are for cunts and homos."
"Yes, I know you have an
allergy to silver. Alas, it happens even in this day and age."
"You want to fight here?"
I asked, uncertain. My anger had evaporated, and without anger it is not as easy
to beat the shit out of an individual.
"I'm not here to fight. I
have a proposition."
I broke into a grin, then
burst into laughter. I had known hundreds of these pimps and their propositions:
they all tried to pull me into filth that brought no benefit. I accepted none of
it, so why should I go along with what this pimp wanted? Because he knew how to
tie a bow tie?
He put aside the knife but
kept it within reach. A quick move, beginning by overturning the table, would
probably work. Depending, of course, on the opponent's reflexes.
"Look," he said, holding
out to me a medallion on a chain. It was all silver, Jesus. "A present from me
to you. You can put it around your neck."
"You're crazy," I croaked
with difficulty. My throat was closing up, and my skin itched unbearably. I
tried to pull away, but it was too late: such a quantity of silver at such close
quarters was more immobilizing than two full nelsons.
So I had got mine. What
entire bands of badass pros with their heaters and razors and knucks and piano
wire hadn't been able to accomplish, this fop in a polkadot bow tie did in under
one minute. And with what? A goddman letter opener and an old necklace, son of a
bitch!
"If you can't speak," Gabe
said, bending over me and pouring his poison into my ear, "then just think:
`From today I fight under a different flag.' You don't need to change a thing,
just the sign. You remain a free agent with free will."
It was over for me. My
throat was one gummy blob, my stomach was a brimming cesspool, my brain swarmed
with maggots. Fire in my gut, the body spazzing as in the final throes. What had
that peacock said? That I didn't need to change a thing? So be it!
The grip slowly relaxed,
my starving lungs drew in their first sweet gulp of air, and the awful twitching
subsided. After a while I straightened and knocked back a shot of vodka. The
chain was still around my neck.
"Hand it back," Gabe said.
I touched my chest. "Why?"
"Oaths made under duress
are not valid. At least not with us."
Again that first person
plural. Did even this Dudley Do Right have to back himself with numbers?
Ridiculous.
I took off the medallion
and hefted it. I was holding a full ounce of silver without pain. Without
feeling at all bad. This was very amusing. More: it gave me a delightful sense
of security. No one now would be able to get me from that side!
"You were saying, I don't
need to change a thing, I can go on as before? You don't want anything from me?"
"Live as you wish. Our
accounting isn't done in this vale."
I closed and opened my
hand. "In that case I'll keep it. I'll take the knife too, to complete the set."
"It's yours." He closed
the switchblade and pushed it toward me.
I took the silver-plated
handle gingerly, but nothing happened.
Then, between one passage
of the waiter and the next, I smacked him in the face and applied the old
strangle. He kicked a little, but in no time at all I made a nice little coot
out of him. I changed into a dark, skinny guy and left. No one even turned to
look at me. Which was fine.
I let him out on the
street. I hadn't even fought with him, so to hell with the guy. He brushed off
his suit, adjusted his bow tie, and said everything was in order. For that I was
tempted to rough him up again, but I only asked:
"Why me?"
"Because you are the
worst. And at the same time the best."
Past tense, ha. I shrugged
and continued on my way. At the corner I let Sultan out. Well, I had promised
him. Let the bastard set himself up with a lawful wedded wife. He was a coward
and a sneak and a drip, but, then, so are most.
Just don't go thinking,
you bunch of tight-assed twits, that I intend to change a thing in my life.
There simply was no need to hold on to those two coots. I'm not settling down,
no way Gus. I still have my own fear to set on, though that can be put in way
that sound better.
You can forget my little
tale if you like, just remember this: as long as the might I have today stays
with me, so does the right. Ha!
Warsaw and
Zakopane, March-May 1994
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