Jan Urban | Author

MY PRIVATE GHETTO

(Three Stories Set Forever Free)

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I'D LIKE TO BUY SOMETHING

 

“Good day. I’d like to buy something.”

The stall seemed rooted in the very earth, yet I couldn’t believe it had always stood there.

Fragrant trees surrounded it.

“Do you have a pouch?”

I handed her a leather pouch. She took it, vanished into the back. I pictured her slipping something inside, on the sly.

“I’d like to…”

“I know.”

Her eyes were sky-blue. They said she knew everything about me. I stood naked before her. A wave of celestial clouds swept through my soul.

I walked away. Beyond the woods a meadow opened. It birthed a thousand dandelions. Beyond the last of them, a river murmured. I sat down. The sun shone into my eyes.

I opened the pouch. A wooden cylinder lay within. As long as a thumb, and just as thick. At one end, it was shaped like a cube. A hole pierced the middle.

For a long time, I didn’t know what it was for.

Now I lie on my bed, staring at the curtains, painted in bright colours. Their hues are calming.

A man arrived. He opened the door himself.

He took hold of the cylinder. I watched in fear, wondering what he would do with it. He set it on the table, cube-end down. From each edge, a little leg slid out. The cylinder began to spin. Slowly at first, then wildly.

It rose. Lifted itself above the table. Then higher.

And higher.

Once it found its balance, it chose its path.

Fool that I am, I’d forgotten to close the window. It flew past the curtain. The fabric swayed, came alive.

I saw a meadow strewn with dandelions. Summer spread above me. A clear river ran ahead.

And then—the river stood still.

I'll need to buy another such cylinder. 

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A STELLAR DAY

 

“Your sister is having a stellar day. Everything’s gone right for her,” Mum called from the kitchen when I came home that evening. She was so delighted, she didn’t even notice I was late.

I dashed up to my room. Sat on my bed. From there I had a clear view of Borovník. The hill where the junipers grow. And where the transmitter stands. It sends out waves… far beyond Borovník.

The sky was thick with stars. The windowsill leaned against my elbows. One star fell, then another. Ah, I forgot to make a wish. But I still had time—another would fall. And it did.

Falling, falling, like something the world had yet to christen. Come on now, scramble up there, you stray wanderer! What a wild one, off it goes, straight towards Borovník!

There’ll be a fire!

It lit up the treetops, gliding past them. I stared out the window, trying to make sense of what it was doing.

For a moment, I stood there stunned, then raised my hands to shield my eyes. No, this can’t be… It’s flying straight at me!

It landed in my arms. Two warm lumps of ice, one large, one small. They knocked me to the floor. The larger one shattered. A seashell fell out.

The smaller lump remained in my hands.

“Muuuum!”

I ran to the kitchen.

Mum looked at what I was holding. The ice had begun to melt.

“Muuum???”

She started licking it.

I’d forgotten to close the window.

The room was freezing, colder than ever before. The shell still lay on the floor.

I couldn’t close the window. I saw perhaps ten white wolves in the yard. Pacing, searching, waiting. And there was Muro, our dear tomcat, strolling like it was nothing, Muro, the wolves will tear you apart!

“SSSS!”

He didn’t listen. Just followed his own path.

“Muro! Hey!”

A wolf neared him. Muro stopped.

They sat beside each other. They stared at me like I was the strange one.

My sister stumbled into the room, half-asleep.

“Why are you making such noise? I had this dream… Muro was sitting with a wolf and… where did you get that shell? I’ve always wanted one like that!” 

 

 

MAP TO PARADISE

 

An angel came. He showed me a map to paradise.

He said that if I wanted to paint it, I’d have to use bright colours. Orange, for instance. And red.

I held the map in my mind for a long time. Until that night, I had painted many dry and impossible images, and I'd even sold some of them. Still, poverty pressed me.

But that painting—I would never sell it.

So I bought paint, two new brushes, and I painted late into the night. It was high time. I could feel the image slipping from my mind. That would have been a loss. The angel might never return.

I had to be careful. A small misstep on the map, and the path would vanish. One day, I would follow it. I would fold the canvas, tuck it into my bag, and walk the long roads. I’d tell no one what I carried, though at times my conscience would trouble me.

But the angel never said I had to tell anyone else.

Once, I fell ill and had to stop my work. I lay in bed for days, sipping tea, slowly recovering. But what helped most was the view from my bed, straight onto the painting. I was proud of it. The brightness of the colours gave me tremendous hope.

The weak days passed, and I could continue. I was nearly done. At the very end of the road to paradise.

I began to pack. In my backpack I placed a piece of bread, some water for thirst, and just before entering paradise, I’d drink a little wholesome wine.

I’d stopped speaking with everyone. But I bore no grudges. I still loved them all, though by then they no longer mattered to me.

One evening, the thought struck me. What if I brought someone along? It would have to be a beautiful woman. It had been so long since I’d been with one. If I told her I had a map to paradise, she’d follow me at once—she might even chase after me.

But I wasn’t sure. And besides, what sort of paradise would it be, if there weren’t beautiful women already waiting there?

If I don’t like it, I’ll come back. 

I had everything ready. In the morning, I would set out, leaving behind all my cheap paintings. Only one of them had value and that one I would never sell.

I had a sleepless night.

Then another just the same.

They said a thief had struck. My cheap paintings were gone. Even the most precious one.

And now the thief is headed to paradise.