What Is Not Yours Is Not Yours(56)

“She being . . . ?”

“Never mind, never mind—I’ll just wait for the next one,” the “wolf” muttered. And Dorni?ka wondered what on earth could be inside that rotting skin.

“Good . . . you do that,” Dorni?ka replied, and then, a few steps down the path, thinking of “the next one,” she sighed and returned to the “wolf.” “But what is it you need, exactly? You can’t be hungry; you just ate an entire wolf.”

The “wolf” shrugged its shoulders and said: “You wouldn’t understand.”

The forlornness of its voice prompted Dorni?ka to coax: “Come now, you can tell me.”

“Life,” said the “wolf.” “I need more life . . . do you think it’s easy for the seasons to change here amidst all this stone?”

“I see,” said Dorni?ka. “It must take a lot.”

“I almost have enough, but I just need a crumb more. Something juicy and young.”

Ah, whatever you are, you really stink. The “wolf’s” haphazard configuration made her own feel loose; she tapped her thighs and forearms. They hadn’t changed. She’d scowled whenever her Tadeá? had slapped her bum and chuckled, “Built to last,” but for now that was a blessing. A group of hikers strolled by; as they realized they were witnessing the encounter of age-old adversaries they booed the “wolf” and urged Dorni?ka on toward her fated triumph, and would have taken photos if it weren’t for the fact that Dorni?ka refused to drop the hood and reveal her side profile. The “wolf” was happy to pose . . .

“What an irregular costume . . . interesting!” The hikers moved on, but one of their party, a rosy-cheeked girl who looked to be sixteen or so, knelt on the ground to retie her shoelaces. Dorni?ka watched the “wolf” stir.

“What can I do to help you change the season here?” she asked, snapping her fingers in front of the “wolf’s” snout.

A tongue darted out across a flaccid muzzle. “Send me something juicy and young.”

“Then I will,” Dorni?ka promised. “But you can’t go after anyone. Just be patient and I’ll send you something nice. OK?”

“OK . . .” said the “wolf.” “But just to be sure . . .”

It raised its paw and dealt her a staggering blow to the hip; by rights this should have shattered the bone but it didn’t. It just hurt an awful lot. “That should do it . . .”

The “wolf” padded up the mountainside and folded its carcass into a rocky crevice, awaiting the arrival of the morsel Dorni?ka had agreed to send.

Dorni?ka limped home, and from there to the emergency room of the local hospital, where she was assured that no part of her body had been sprained or broken. But a bruise grew over her left hipbone; it grew three-dimensional, pushing its way out of her frame like a king-sized wart. The bruise wasn’t colored like a bruise either—it was a florid pink, like a knob of cured ham. At times she felt it contract and expand as if it were suckling at her hip joint. The sight and feel of that made her nauseous, but a doctor scanned and prodded both Dorni?ka and her lump and said that Dorni?ka was in fine fettle and the lump would fall off on its own. When Dorni?ka was fully clothed it looked as if she was pregnant or experiencing extreme and left hip–specific weight gain. People remarked upon it, so the day before Al?běta and Klaudie arrived, Dorni?ka took a carving knife, put her left foot on the edge of the bathtub, and cut the ham-like knob off. As she’d suspected the severance was painless and actually relieved the tension she’d been feeling, as if she was a patient in an era in which bloodletting was still believed to be a procedure that brought balance to the body’s humors. She treated the wound, wrapped gauze bandages around it, washed and dried the heavy, oval-shaped lump of flesh. Was it fat, muscle, a mix of both? She pushed her finger into the center of the oval. Soft, but elasticity was minimal. Like lukewarm porridge. Lukewarm . . . Ah, this thing had better not be alive. Of course it wasn’t, of course it wasn’t. She thought about weighing it and decided not to. She also thought about taking the severed lump to the “wolf” but that would be a wasted journey, since this flesh didn’t meet the “wolf’s” requirements. She buried it in the garden beneath an ash tree. Then she put her considerable talent for making nice things to eat to Al?běta and Klaudie’s service, simmering and baking and braising through the night.

—

KLAUDIE had nineteen years behind her and who knew how many ahead; her eyes sparkled and did not see. Sometimes she used a cane, sometimes not, depending on her own confidence and the pace of the crowd around her. In Ostrava she didn’t use her cane at all. That autumn she went around Dorni?ka’s pantry lifting lids and opening cupboard doors: “What is that delicious smell? I want a slice right now!” Al?běta and Dorni?ka served up portions of everything that was available, tasting as they went along, but Klaudie sniffed each plate and dismissed its contents. Then she went and stood under Dorni?ka’s ash tree and drew such deep and voluptuous breaths that Dorni?ka began to have the kind of misgivings one doesn’t put into words.

“Come, Klaudie,” she called. “I need your help with something.”

The project Dorni?ka invented wasn’t especially time-consuming, but it was better than nothing. Klaudie took up a power drill and Dorni?ka a handsaw and ruler and they made a small, simple but sturdy wooden chest, and when they had finished Al?běta fetched out her own bag of tools and fitted the wooden chest with a lock—“Free of charge, free of charge, and I hope it holds your treasures for you for years to come, dear Dorni?ka,” she said, giving her godmother a big kiss before turning in for the night. Even though the locked chest was empty Dorni?ka slept with her fingers wrapped around the key that fit its lock; that hand made a fist over her stomach.