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Synthetic Substance
My father was amaster among garbage collectors. Even from adistance he could determine whether some cast-off thing had any worth and whether he would be able, so to speak, to put it on the market.
From empty sardine cans and beer-bottle caps he used to make little cars, faithful models of the ones on the street, which he managed to sell in the pub before Christmas for 500 francs; that meant he could treat himself to abeer or, theoretically, akilo of rice. In the pit behind the bazaar he was able, just with afleeting glance, to discover cast-off parts which other garages might be willing to buy, and by briefly rattling aradio he would know whether something inside could be of use. At home too we have an absolutely perfect big radio that he fixed. He also collected cables, transistors and old batteries, but those were rare goods and made their appearance only afew times during the season.
Dad was always contented with everything. He never complained about the government or the rich. It was only the neighbours, sitting in the bar and seeking work there, who went on about such things to all and sundry. They didn’t want to have any clever ideas. On occasion Dad too would sit with them and sometimes he’d order asmall round for them, but most of the time he was not to be found in the pub, or at home either. He was taking care of his business. As he used to say with pride in his voice, he’d found achink in the market and grasped his opportunity.
(....)
Afew days later Uncle Krištof came to visit us. Dad and he drank palm wine and talked men’s talk. Suddenly Iheard:
“You see, before long the young fellow will be taking over my business. That right, son?”
I’ve no idea why, but instead of nodding enthusiastically, Ijust shifted my weight to the other foot, perplexed, and looked at the ground.
Dad was stopped in his tracks. He came over to me and lifted my chin with his palm.
“Why don’t you answer? You’re surely not going to tell me you don’t want to be agarbage collector?”
Ilooked away at an angle. Ikept silent, even if Iwas imagining all those folding knives, watches, jewels and parade rifles that awaited me in my future work. Maybe my voice was overcome by those poisonous gases from the dump.
He leaned towards me, rolled his bulging eyes at me and roared:
“Ha! Young sir! And what would you like to be? Ha? Apoet?”
In the word poet he invested all his anger and indignation, and with thepashower of spit struck my face.
“What’s apoet?” Iasked Jozef when Iwent to school next morning. Jozef is afew years older and he’s the wisest of my classmates, because he has attended each class two years in arow. He knows the answer to everything, and he is respected in the school accordingly.
He took from me the brawn baguette that Ihad for the break and explained to me that poets do nothing all their lives except write whatever comes into their minds. They fantasise. And they get money for that. However, they have to make the ends of their lines similar, which isn’t entirely simple. Not everyone can do that: to find the right word that rhymes and also makes sense. They also write speeches for presidents.
“Rabbits’ habits” Isaid immediately, and Jozef smiled broadly. My first rhyme was successful, because it made perfect sense and it scored with the public. To be apoet wouldn’t be too bad, just that Ihad to practice, to write out all the words and divide them in groups according to their similarities. I’d have them well prepared.
Afew days later Ihad almost awhole notebook full, with densely inscribed pages. All the words Iknew were in there. On one side, for example, were all the words ending with “ist”: journalist, pacifist, insist, artist, dentist, communist, persist, blacklist, and pianist. Iunderlined them with coloured pencil so as to separate them according to meanings. With this assistance it would be child’s play to compose poems. It was enough just to combine words properly. Right at the start Icould see Ihad talent for poetry.
Ididn’t understand why Dad thought so little of the profession of poet. Aperson sat at home and wrote instead of spending all day in the dump coughing in the rain, heating oneself in clouds of stinging black smoke and raking through rubbish. To say nothing of other employments.
For the moment Iwas going to keep that to myself. Idecided Iwould present Dad with afait accompli. I’d let him know as soon it was clear that I’d become apoet.
Pending that, Ineeded to devote myself to apresidential speech. Soon it would be the New Year and Independence Day, the 50th anniversary. Icouldn’t have imagined abetter opportunity to show off my capacities.
For my twelfth birthday I’d received from Dad, along with Coca Cola, adigital radio with an alarm clock. In the morning it would play asong for me, and I’d rush to school. Asplendid way to rise! The radio only worked for afew days, but during that time Iwas able to listen to awhole heap of foreign words which sounded well and were used by politicians in interviews with people from the radio. For example, ‘electorate’, to which I’d already allied ‘fat’ and ‘certificate’, or ‘dispersal’, which sounded like awashing powder and could go with ‘vessel’ or ‘castle’.
Iopened my spare notebook and wrote aletter with apresidential speech. It was shorter than I’d originally imagined it, but Imanaged to get some really good rhymes into it such as hunger – younger, gold – sold, or powder – louder, so that right at the first reading it would be clear to everyone that the author was aborn poet, the genuine article. Mr. President spoke there about our young country, used many apt linkages of words that Ihad heard on the radio, and devoted alarge part of his speech to rubbish and rubbish dumps. The citizens needed more rubbish, so that there would be enough for everyone and fights would not break out at the dumps. Only then, when there was sufficient garbage in every district, would all families have enough to eat. He would do everything to ensure that in the coming electoral period everyone would have as much rubbish as he needed at his disposal, so that all in the country were contented.
On the envelope Iwrote: for Mr. President. For personal attention. Iput it in the post and waited to see what would happen.
One morning the alarm clock on the radio did not go off and Ioverslept and came late to school. Imissed the analysis of apoem, which became afateful matter for me. Keats’s Autumn. At afurther English class Iwasn’t fully in shape, because I’d been washing plastic trays with Dad late into the night. Isimply did not understand what the teacher was getting at. He was asking what Autumn meant, and what the seasons of the year were in Europe, and Iwas thinking of the President and dozing alittle.
Mr. Thaddeus, ateacher whom I’d liked very much before then, asked me what Keats had in mind when he was writing about Autumn.
“About Autumn,” Ireplied, and to my great surprise that was abad answer. Later he wanted to know which Autumn fruit Keats was describing, and so Inamed tomatoes, mango, grapefruit, avocado, and everything in our normal collection at home.
The teacher’s voice went hoarse.
My classmates were enjoying themselves. It seemed to me that there was agreat big misunderstanding. Ionly read the poem afterwards. It wasn’t entirely clear to me why Keats had not put what he was thinking of directly down on paper but rather had written something entirely different. He wasn’t much of apoet. After all, if Iwant to write about death, Iwrite about death, and not about fruit! And Irhyme regularly, for that matter!
“To Hell with them!” Isaid to myself. “Before long they’ll see what areal poet is!”
Idid not receive any answer from the President to my letter. Iwent to enquire at the Post Office, but the pigeon-hole was empty, dust-covered. Once again the Post Office has mislaid the mail, Itold myself, and impatiently Iwaited for the public celebrations. Maybe the president would thank me directly during his address.
Every morning I marked off aday on the kitchen calendar, until the occasion finally arrived. The streets were swept clean and decorated with banners. I put on long trousers and dragged my surprised Dad to the bar opposite, where they had an enormous colour TV.
“Listen, listen!” Ihad to admonish him, because he sat with his back to the screen and amused himself talking to the neighbours about some stupidities.
For along time we gazed at the military parade and the colourful processions with their banners, and Ihad constantly to keep turning Dad around, because he wasn’t even slightly interested in all that.
“It’s coming, it’s coming,” Irepeated to him Idon’t know how many times, and finally it came. The President spoke for two hours, but somebody else had written what he said. He didn’t use a word from my speech, not even one of my successful rhymes.
Ihad afeeling of desperation. Dad sensed that something was going on. Ididn’t have the slightest inclination to explain things to him. Nor did Iwant to finish my raspberry juice. He took me by the hand and we went away. And then Iasked him something which, even that morning, Icould never have imagined:
“When are you going to take me to the dump again?”
