In a few days’ time I may become homeless. I am not certain yet. These ‘maybes’ have always tormented me.
I was searching for a fixed point. A point that would carry me away from this world, even for a moment. I’ve been staring at a spot on the wall without it reminding me of anything. I try to paint happy times inside this white spot.
The train attendant’s voice pulls me back: ‘Train number 444 to Bratislava will depart in two minutes. Passengers are kindly requested to take their seats as soon as possible.’
She announces the names of several other cities too. I don’t pay attention to which ones; they don’t matter to me, and this isn’t the first time I’ve heard their names. I pick up my suitcase. Someone asks, ‘Excuse me, sir! Where is this train going?’
‘Bratislava.’
‘Could you help me with twenty cents? I’m only twenty cents short.’
I slip my hand into my pocket. There’s a small hole at the bottom. I play with it a little while feeling for the coins. I pretend to be flustered and say, ‘Sorry! It looks like there’s a hole in my pocket and my change has fallen out.’
It’s an old trick of mine; I enjoy it. The man lowered his head and said nothing. I imagined he was cursing me under his breath — something like ‘idiot’ or ‘show-off’. Words like that.
The train starts moving. The sound of the train carries me back to those days. This sound has always pleased me. As far back as I can remember, I’ve lived in this city and haven’t travelled much. I’ve been to Bratislava a few times, but always for pointless reasons. For example, once I went just to buy a packet of raisins. Hard to believe. And twice to find full-fat milk. They were all excuses. I’m the kind of man who can’t keep money in his pocket. Nor do I like giving it to anyone. It suits me fine.
I took the packet of raisins out of my pocket. I thought to myself: well, in four days you won’t have anywhere to sleep. What are you going to do? I had no answer. I didn’t think about it much. I forced myself into a lowly kind of indifference, like those disgusting people whose clothes stink. A friend of mine once told me that my clothes smelled bad. I never imagined clothes could pick up a smell — and what a smell!
Four years ago, when I first got on a train, I was overjoyed, as if I were boarding an aeroplane. I mention this mostly so I don’t forget what a lowly, backward person I am.
Three years ago I bought a computer. Maybe for twenty or thirty euros. At the time my friend told me I’d been conned. He was probably right. The computer wouldn’t turn on. It was only good for posing with.
I would put on dark glasses and wear an old jacket I’d found in the dustbin next to the mayor’s house. I also stole a pair of trousers of the same colour from a friend — though they were a bit faded and sun-bleached. I found a checked shirt in another dustbin and finally put together a proper dandyish look. I’d go to the fancy shops dressed like that!
I gambled away my father’s house — which he always claimed he had bought with stolen money and by collecting rubbish — in a gambling den. That damned beer leaves you with no sense at all. My head was hot, so I put the house deed down as a stake. Our house was worth about a hundred and fifty euros. After that my father threw me out. I had no choice but to rent a bed with my thief and rubbish-collector friends in one of those old hostels left over from the communist era.
My father was not a communist, but he had communist ideas. He used to say, ‘A man should have a little wisdom so he can tell what is good and what is bad!’
This remark of his was repeated a great deal, because these days everyone says it. I had heard it in the past too.
The rather plain train attendant says with a dry, arrogant face: ‘Ticket!’
I didn’t have a ticket. Where would I get the money from? I ostentatiously patted my pockets and then calmly replied, ‘I don’t have one!’
The attendant started shouting and making a scene. Her face didn’t suggest she could be so aggressive. In the end she forced me to pay one euro and seventy cents. It was exactly the small change I hadn’t given to that man. I said to myself, ‘What a mistake you made getting on the train. You should have walked!’
The people sitting in the other seats wouldn’t look at me. Except for an old woman sitting two seats away. She was staring at me with great anger. I stared back into her eyes. I wanted to see how long she would keep it up. The old woman took off her glasses and spat on the floor of the carriage. I spat too. She turned her face away — very dignified, of course, in that special way old European women have.
The last amount I paid was fourteen euros for the bed in the hostel. It was very expensive, but because it had internet the price couldn’t be lower. I only wanted to pose; otherwise my computer didn’t work and the internet was of no use to me. I have only ever heard the name ‘internet’.
Today too I’m wearing the same clothes I wear with my computer. I had hoped that with this appearance no one would guess I was homeless. But that was wishful thinking; my clothes smelled terribly and no one would sit next to me.
Bratislava could be seen from afar. I don’t know — perhaps because I had been there so often, I thought the place was good for me.
The city was always beautiful. I could do a bit of petty mischief there. No one would say anything. The people were good. Sometimes the police would come and kick us around. When I say ‘sometimes’ I mean once or twice every night.
It wasn’t our fault; the city was a proper rubbish dump in itself. Some time ago I pointed this out to the mayor in an open letter. The mayor never replied. That was when I started holding a grudge against him. I had shown this letter to my friend in Bratislava. I had written it with a pencil I found in the dustbin near the municipality, on sandwich paper. It looked nice. When the pencil ran out of lead, I would chew the wooden tip with my teeth and moisten it with spit to bring the colour back. We threw the letter inside through the railings in front of the municipal building. It was a good day. We laughed a lot.
My spot for stealing and collecting useful rubbish was opposite the big market in the city centre. The rubbish I collected included: old shoes, torn clothes, biscuit crumbs and leftover drinks, glass beer bottles (which were very expensive and sold for good money), sandwich leftovers and other scraps of food. If I got hold of sandwich leftovers I would celebrate. These days there is an economic crisis and there are many people like me. This country has plenty of beggars and hungry people, and plenty of hungry prostitutes. They are the main rivals of me and my friends. But I liked one of them and would usually share the sandwich leftovers I found with her. I had heard she had AIDS, which is why she didn’t have much business. No one took her except refugees.
I have been homeless for a long time. But from four days’ time I will definitely be homeless, because the municipality is going to demolish the shelter under which I sleep at night. When the mayor does this, I plan to burn the jacket I found in front of his house. That will empty the knots in my heart.
Opposite my favourite food shop, I am looking for a permanent place to spend my nights. A place where I can draw pictures in peace, like at the train station. I am a good painter. All my friends come to me to have their portraits drawn. I don’t take money from them. They are my friends; I don’t think it would be right to charge them.
When my father threw me out, some time later he sent a message through my stepmother saying that if I wanted, I could come back. I replied to him: ‘Get lost! What did you think? You’re not the owner of the mayor’s palace, are you? Is sleeping under a shop shelter really a home? I will make a proper life for myself, with a real house.’
It was after that I realised what a mistake I had made. I went to two of my higher-class friends who lived in the hostel. I earned the rent for this bed that I left today by stealing cigarette butts. I paid fourteen euros every night. It wasn’t a small amount. Our hostel was under several shop shelters and my father was my neighbour. At night, when I came back from work, I would proudly count the money and hand it to the hostel owner with a show. My father would watch me from the corner of his eye and sometimes spit on the ground. He wanted to anger me with that. I would spit too.
My stepmother would stand by the roadside at night. Her business was good because she worked opposite the lorry station and the drivers preferred her to the others. She would only sleep for an hour in the morning, and when the shops opened we would run away. The mayor had told us not to sleep there any more. But everyone was afraid of the hostel owner, who was a strong man. He would forcibly make the homeless come and sleep there at night and pay him rent. Once he even caught me and a few of the lads bringing him leftover beer to sell. That was where I lost at gambling.
* * *
Five years have passed since then. Now I am the boss in Bratislava. I have built myself a nice house out of scrap metal and I live with that same prostitute they said had AIDS. In fact, when the mayor’s murder was pinned on me, I automatically became the boss. Everyone was afraid of me because I was a criminal and the only homeless man who had ever taken a train. My friends respected me and they built this iron house for me too. These days I take money from them by force. Soon I will set up another scheme and sell the leftover beer that the homeless kids collect for me. Life here is hard. There is an economic crisis.