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46
Sometimes Zubris heated up the nerves in the
pan
, and he
fell at the roots of trees and begged forgiveness.
“Boys, you definitely have to make friends with the living
giants of the city, that shiver their leaves against the wind
and at whose feet lie bushes, topiary like stately
pans
!”
father said at breakfast.
If trees were friends, then bugs weren’t; some gad-fly had
bitten father. His throat swelled. The father cut away living
skin, living flesh. Blood welled up, and shriveled the desire
to do doors, which led to the doctor’s cubicle. It only
became worse. Many moments of divination flooded into
the father’s nightmares and seizures. Blood changed its
name and said:
“We are old, we’ve been in service to you a long time, from
now on we refuse to listen to you.”
With tram bells constantly ringing at the crossroads, life
left the father. Trees came with hands lowered, but with the
heart of God. And said farewell. Father lay in leaves, green
as grass, and the thick net of veins carried him somewhere
higher.
Pan
Janovski was laid in a personal coffin, that had long
pined away in the attic. And his old brides, seeing the
elegant, silent epistle of the man, fell in love anew for good
reason.