Tom Mccarthy - Men in Space

Heres Anton Markov, sitting at a table, running his finger round a saucers rim as he watches his compatriot Koulin stride across the Malostransk Kavrnas floor. Koulin takes bouncy, elastic steps. He swings his arms and hips round chairs and tables. He turns like an ice skater to glide backwards for two paces as he skirts around the waitress, a girl of twenty-odd. Wall-mounted mirrors, one on either side of the door from which hes just emerged, the door that leads off to the toilets, render the event in triplicate: three Koulins front, left profile and right profile, like in police mugshots. There are three waitresses too, three sets of background customers. Looking at the multiplying scene, Anton recalls his refereeing days in Bulgaria: the trick was to see all the near-identical shirts, repeated runs, sudden departures, switches and loop-backs as one single movement, parts of a modulating system which you had to watch as though from outside, or above, or somewhere else.

So anyway, says Koulin, sliding back into his chair and stretching his arm out across the radiator behind him, this Yugoslavians place is in Prague Four, by Nusle. He lives on the fourth floor. Me and Milachkov thought wed scare him by saying wed throw him out of the window. So we turn up there and its him that opens the door to us, in a towel-robe. It must be about 10 a.m. Mila knocks him straight down and we pick him up, one of us at either end, and carry him towards the window. But while were lugging him there, this girl walks in out of the bedroom. And guess what?

His eyes beam across the table, pink-flushed with excitement.

What? asks Anton.

Shes naked, Koulin tells him. Really lovely body. Brown hair down her back. Small round tits. When she sees us she starts crying and screaming Oh dont hurt him! Please dont hurt him! I start to explain that we dont want to hurt him but he owes Ili money for the cigarettes hes selling on his patch, but she just cries and screams some more. The Yugoslavians all calm because hes dazed from Milas punch, so hes no problem, but this girl is kicking up a storm. And then He shifts his arm. This bit is kind of difficult to explain exactly as it happened Well, she pissed herself. But what I noticed is a kind of dribble no, I lie, it wasnt a dribble: it was more like a bag had burst just on the inside of her leg. A bag that wasnt there before. Or like when someone throws a water balloon, you know, and it explodes. One solid mass. At least, it was solid till it hit the floor, one of those criss-cross floors, all wood, what do they call them?

Parquet. Parquetry.

Right: till it hit the parquetry. Then it broke. Really bizarre. Because she was naked there was nothing to interrupt its fall. And this girl, this beautiful naked girl just stood above it, screaming. I dont know if shed even noticed what shed just done

Did Koulin tell a similar story about Anton, their first meeting? Did he slide into a similar chair perhaps this very one and, stretching his arm across the radiator, say to his friend Milachkov: So theres me and Janachkov, and Janas itching to break this guys finger, got his finger in his hand, this short, smart-ass guy, maybe Jewish with the face he has. And Ilis there too, and he starts explaining to the guy what hes done wrong, importing all that pop and selling it bang in the middle of Prague without going through us, or anyone else for that matter And behind the casual anecdote, Anton pinned against the wall rigid with fear, wishing hed never noticed in the first place that Pragues potraviny had been out of lemonade all summer, never suggested Zdenk drive to Germany to get some, hoping Helena wouldnt come home just then, hoping theyd just break his finger and leave it at that, not punch him in the stomach or the face, or at least not the balls, please not the balls when suddenly he heard Ilievski speak to Janachkov in Bulgarian. Dont break it just yet, he told him. Anton whined Youre Bulgarian! And Janachkov immediately let the finger go.

What the

Ilievski here, speaking for all of them while they stood back and stared. It was as though shared nationality had embarrassed them out of hurting him. From then on it became like an engineering faculty dinner or one of those BFA post-match receptions. Ilievski asked him how hed come to live in Prague, what he did beside (chuckling now) selling lemonade on other peoples patches without paying dues, what hed done back in Bulgaria They discovered that theyd both grown up in Dragalevtsi, and that Ili had had a considerable amount of money riding on the 87 grudge match between Levski and CSKA, money which had doubled after Anton awarded a contentious penalty to CSKA in extra time.

How much did you pay for the pop?

Ten Deutschmarks per crate.

Not bad at all. How would you like to work for me? I can offer

Anton accepted on the spot. That evening he went to the Bulgarian church on Jen and lit a candle for whatever guardian angel or neural impulse had made him blow for handball four years earlier.

and then this second girl walks in, Koulins saying, though shes not naked, mores the pity. She tries to calm the first girl down. The parquetrys not varnished, so the piss has made a big dark patch across it

Anton, still orbiting the saucer with his finger, pictures the patch, its jagged edges, the frightened girl above it. In his mind he pauses the scene, steps in, tells the girl Its OK, just keep calm, things work themselves out, then, standing among them, regulates the other figures movement around the room: sends her friend to fetch a knee-length jumper for her, holds Koulin and Milachkov at bay beside the window while the Yugoslavian comes round, digs out some money, pays them It works: the story ends without anyone else getting hurt. When hes finished telling it, Koulin slides an envelope across the table to him.

Passports?

Passports.

Anton slips the envelope into a dossier hes got with him. Ilievski, Koulin says, will be at the car market by Palmovka at eleven thirty.

He told you that?

Yeah. I was with him last night. He wants you to meet him there.

OK, then. Let me

I got that.

Koulin flips the bill over, sliding his thumb up so that the paper slots between his right hands middle and index fingers.

Youve practised that.

What?

Nothing. Thanks.

Outside, the suns breaking through the thick December cloud that was covering the whole city as Anton made his way to the Kavrna. Roofs red-, gold- and brown-tiled are still icy. Anton crosses the tram tracks at the edge of Malostransk Nmst and walks down Mosteck, past bureaux de change and shops selling Bohemian crystal. He lets his shoe-soles scrape the pavements alternating black and white cobbles. Its a habit he has. Helena complains that it wears his shoes out, but he likes the noise, the sand and tap. His rhythm is broken when he passes beneath the portal onto Karlv Most: there are too many people on the bridge. Its the usual crowd: journeyman artists hawking sketches of the Star Msto skyline, or drawing people perched on stools in front of them.