Gentle (?)

From Print Issue 5, December 2023

Beyond Barabás, passing through Kaszonyi-hegy Park, past its turquoise water holes and its rusty fences, through an unnamed locality, two three cracked roads, the 0070706 above all. Oh yes, even the M25. There we halt amazed, the sky breaks open above us, and we’ve made it, really made it to the periphery.

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The joke is after all, that there is no method. It’s all there. Everything is already there. Nothing is meant differently.

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Into the rickety car, three doors slam shut, we slide together on the back seat. One seat belt is missing. The car is started, the windows rolled down. And then the still-warmth of the still-evening wafting into the car, swirling in slow strokes through the interior. In the back, some are smoking.

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It’s so dark that one can only guess at the historic landscape passing by, but then the moon comes out from behind the clouds and one sees everything as if covered by a grainy filter.

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Oh, and how it smells. We wonder if it’s steaming over from Ukraine or rather Hungary, but Hungary smells like goulash, says one, shut up, says someone else.

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But now we're expanding across the continent. Even further, across the whole world.

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We stroll past the border fences, we walk through restricted military areas. The hearts of some are certainly racing. It’s pitch dark, rarely been so dark (we can only just make out those four-meter-high fences next to us, flashing barbed wire on top). The one in front bends a few branches aside and we walk through tall bushes into the ruin. Inside, the roof has collapsed, but the springs are still intact. Young soldiers with black chest hair sit silently in the water, barely looking at us, candles burning in empty window openings at the edge. They have discarded their uniforms (green fabric on the rocks surrounding the ruins), there is a smell of summer night and hot water, steam pulsing through their faces.

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At snow time, though, there’s hail. Tennis ball-sized, as the saying goes. A thunder like in war and the tin roof above us threatens to collapse. We move so close together near the wall that it almost makes us uncomfortable. The wall is roughly bricked; it leaks. In the background, machines are pounding. A hell of a noise, someone yells. We shiver, feel barren, and then move even closer together.

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Where are we, anyway? someone asks. Pale, she looks up a wooden power pole. Fires burn in the distance. One of us scrapes over the sandy ground with their silver trainers. Someone else drinks noisily. No one answers her.

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We strip naked and let our smooth bodies slide into the water, our gazes tell each other: careful, gentle, there are still roof fragments in the water. One of us sways briefly, threatening to lose his balance, then another takes his arm and he balances himself again, from below he thanks her with a silent smile. Then we are all in the water, let our feet rise up, and camp vis-à-vis the soldiers, who barely noticeably incline their heads in greeting, the crickets make a soft noise and we can’t tell if it comes from this or the other side of the border.

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When we get to know other people, have to get to know them, they are always puzzled by the understanding in which we move, for which small gestures and short sounds suffice (we don’t talk much). This is hard to bear for the newcomers and actually there is no room for new ones, the constellation is right and no words are needed to establish this. The others will soon be gone.

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Yes, it escapes, if only a little bit. The rest is as usual: front to back, top left to bottom right. But there’s probably nothing one can do about that.

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Our deformed bodies we bathe in the tropical night, the heavy one. Behind us, the skeleton of an almost-building looms, we stand on the top floor, and above us, the laden sky crowds. We are always individuals, we tell ourselves, but then quickly forget. At the foot of the tower, scratched taxis race along.

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On a way back we are exhausted, we stumble a lot and go a different way than we came, away from fences that scare us. There we are on a sandy hill, one gently drops to the ground and exhales, his rib cage moving fast. So the rest of us drop down next to him, letting ourselves fall, each with a leg, an arm, a belly, a chest to lie on, and all feeling that these bodies of ours fit perfectly together. One points up and now it actually starts to get cold, a breeze goes, and we move even closer together. One by one we fall asleep and dream of the dark silent evenings and roaring springs coming out of the earth.

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In the picture, we all look very mischievous. However, this is hard to see because of the half broken phone cam. At the time it was taken, the numerous bushes and trees were swaying in the wind and a plane was passing in the distance. We all look distorted; streaks across our bare bodies.

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This reminds me of something, shouts one standing under the arch. The roof of the church is split, revealing glimpses of the sun inside. The beam is already firm in the dusty atmosphere of this place. The sun looks at us in anticipation. But... of what? a furtive answer comes from the cloister. Layers of incense have settled on the walls over the sacred generations, secreting their haunting odor. I think I forgot, mumbles one later on the sloping lawn, the afternoon mist absorbing her words one by one.

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Where the steppe ends, we are. We fall silent before the glow of the sky, which at times seems to come closer and then recedes. Bony land, a surprising shade of red. Dry air, so dry that we cough creakily. And all the more it is as if we’re rooted to the spot. We are indeed rooted and icy winds flow around us harshly. We have arrived, someone says. Even if we can only pump air into our perforated lungs with difficulty.

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I stroke myself through. I do this every day now. We all do it. When I feel something, for example, this twig here, in my hand, it is not my finger cracking it. Then it is my finger pulling off the fibrous shell. We all bleed when we accidentally grab the prick. Then it is not mine, is it.

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Len Sander lives in Germany.