Metempsychosis, M.A. (9)

Self-submission and self-deception might well be the greatest obstacles on the path to inner freedom... It's incredible how deeply the episode got lodged in his psyche. Last summer, he asked me to meet him in Café Havelka. It was a time when I could still converse with him in a relatively civilized way; 'civilized' in this case means, he was prepared to come down to my level and speak to me in person. He seemed to still carry the visible mark of this remote awkwardness about him though - his unremitting effort to subjugate me, to make me his property portfolio page, a picture in the album of possessions. I noticed it in the way he avoided my eyes, in his tight-lipped contempt for me. I am certain, it's Anton, no one else, who created the heavy load of disgrace for himself. And it breaks my heart that, although I love my brother, there is nothing I can do to alleviate his misery.

The meeting was brief. It was months before the financial crash of last December, yet he was already talking about his alleged financial problems, that he recently drowned nearly a million-worth investment somewhere in America and badly needed a substantial financial injection to get back on his feet. Is that a lot to you, a million? I asked naively, assuming the figures he typically handled were much steeper. It's substantial enough – the money was all my own, he replied, looking at the table as if hoping it may reappear in front of him on demand should he stare this way long enough. Are you saying it wouldn't be as much if it belonged to someone else? - I continued. These days money hardly belongs to anyone, he replied. He probably meant that if the sum wasn't his, it wouldn't matter who else had it. He then tried to raise the issue of inheritance but, knowing how profoundly I disliked the subject, he threaded carefully.

Mother seems content... he uttered without conviction.

She is too drugged to seem otherwise, I replied briskly, precipitating long silence.

How's your flat? he inquired, struggling to make conversation.

My flat is a very happy and thriving place, I said. If only all other flats were as bright and peaceful as mine, the world would be a better place. Is that so... he blurted out with his trademark incredulity. Yes it is, I answered brazenly. It is happy mostly because no one unhappy ever visits. I tried to provoke him to say something involved, something personal, something that would serve as viable excuse for never turning up, not even once despite repeated invitations, but to no avail. He only smirked sardonically, probably thinking who on Earth might be misguided or ill-advised enough to come and see ME anyway. Guessing his thoughts, I added that Kora visits on a regular basis. And how is she doing? he threw in, disinterested on the onset. You're supposed to know that. You are her only uncle... I am, he admitted, that's correct. I haven't spoken to her in a while; have been busy lately, business affairs and all that... The work keeps me away from... - and here Anton tried to find words which would not sound overtly cynical - ...relatives.

She is doing well... I said. She loves her work almost as much as you. He seemed to approve of the comment, he particularly enjoyed the sound 'almost.'

Still alone? he asked. I said, yes, still alone. She is careful; too busy to bother with relationships... How about you, anyone in sight? He immediately switched his approval light off, frowned and got angry. Looking like someone who inside his head screams 'it's not your fucking business, you freak of nature' - he only replied, No one, and then quickly, to change the topic, he said: Listen, I wanted to meet you to discuss the situation... I mean, mother's situation. She's practically bed-bound and may not live much longer, so...

I interjected that, to my knowledge, she left a will with her lawyer and that there was nothing left to discuss between us...

Me and Agnes are concerned, he said somewhat hesitantly, building up onto something I did not foresee. About what? I asked. You and Agnes are concerned about what? I repeated, perhaps a notch too stand-offishly. '

We are concerned, that you may think of doing it again... Trying to donate your share, like the last time, with dad's insurance fund... When you gave it away to some immigration charity...

I corrected him, that first of all, it was only half, and besides, what does it have to do with Agnes and himself? Someone leaves instructions, money is being split, and I diligently utilise it to my best ability... Yes, he interrupted, but if you will once again leave a large sum of money to complete strangers, this means you clearly hate your family.

I do not hate, I said after a brief pause. And as to the money, I might, I don't know. I might well donate it where it's needed most. They most certainly need it more than you or myself. You will send it immediately abroad, and I want to put it into a good use locally... I ventured, wasting time for futile argument. He looked at me with such fierce brutality as if he wanted to smack me in face, and then he got up and left. It was the last time I saw him face to face.

At the funeral, he kept as far away as possible. He didn't say a word to me. And now this theatrical defiance, these ultimatums, deadlines and a rush down the cliff to reorder missing digits. Only formal communications through lawyers... To make things worse, all this just when the world learns about Fritzl... How awful, how terribly awful. Poor kids, poor Elisabeth... All my concerns, worries, my petty sorrows mean nothing in comparison. I feel ashamed for giving out, for splitting hairs... I feel like the whole country mourns today. Not because someone died - but because of the way we live.

© 2023