Ivan Dobnik - Vilenica

112 · György Dragomán
Haul
Zeus edged the bus in among the pines. No sooner did he turn off the
engine than he heard the animals yapping and growling behind the canvas
tarp stretched tight across the cage behind him. Taking a kick at the iron
grille, he snapped, “Shut up, you rotten sons of bitches.” But his words
were meant not so much for the animals, which couldn’t have possibly
kept still, anyway, hungry and pumped up with amphetamines as they
were, but more so to finally rouse his clients. They’d been asleep for almost
a hundred and fifty miles, the man’s head drooping to the side, partly in
the woman’s lap, the woman slumped against the fake leather seat and the
fiberboard lining the door.
Again Zeus kicked the grille, and as he looked back at his clients he could
hear the animals thirstily nudging the empty enamel vats over the riveted
metal floor of the cage. The man was the first to stir, his eyes flitting about
in a daze as he seemed to remember what was going on. Placing a hand on
the woman’s shoulder and giving her a shake, he whispered something to
her. Theirs was a lovely, melodic tongue. Zeus had no idea what it was, Armenian
or Gagauz or whatever. Not that he cared a whole lot. The woman,
of course, knew at once where she was. She looked first at the industrial
cooler where the left-hand seats of the old bus would have been, and then
at Zeus: “Are we there yet?” she asked in accented French that Zeus understood
easily enough.
“Less than half a mile to go,” said Zeus with a nod. “Best you now give me
the other half of the money.”
The woman said something to the man, who reached into the pocket of
his sport coat and removed an envelope, which he handed to Zeus. After
taking the money, Zeus opened one of the cooler’s compartments and removed
an old ice cream box, which he gave the woman. “Get naked, both
of you, and then spread this stuff over yourselves nice and thick. I’ll count
the money meanwhile.”
Taking the box, the woman said something to the man and then began
undressing. The man now did so, too, removing his shirt and his pants
before opening the box. Staring at the greasy yellow cream, he posed the
woman a question, at which she, naked, turned to Zeus: “What is this?”
she asked. “My husband wants to know.”
Zeus gave a wave of the hand. “Bear lard,” he said, “What else. But no
more questions. We agreed no one would ask a thing. Spread yourselves all
over, head to toe, and don’t leave your hair out, either. Don’t bother about
it being smelly. By the time you’re done, I’ll be all set, too.”
Reaching into the strongbox by the driver’s seat, Zeus removed a small
ultraviolet lamp from beside the rest of the money. He then lit up the
banknotes one by one, caressing them and sniffing at some. Noticing that
the man was watching, he growled at him, in Hungarian, so that not even