Bodies on the Table

Our bodies were served at the table. On the bone in my bowl lay my father's silver ring. I looked closer - the ring was on a finger. The host slid the spoon toward me. - Do not be frightened, Pan Ivan. This is you as of tomorrow. Beside me old Yakym held in his palm a crooked tooth with a black crack. An identical one jutted from his own mouth.

An hour before that, our oxen had all stopped together in the middle of the salt road. Fog lay up to their bellies, the wheels sank in, and the forest went quiet so suddenly, as if someone had covered it with a palm. Yakym had driven carts here for thirty years and swore: there was no dwelling ahead. Yet between the trees six windows burned. Exactly as many as there were of us. On the threshold the host called each of us by name.

Inside it smelled of roast meat, wet wool and home. Not just of bread - of the very bread my mother used to bake when I was small. On the table six bowls were waiting. The steam above each one reached toward its guest, as if it recognized him. Hanna sat down last. Her bowl slid along after her by itself. - We were expected here, - she whispered. From the ceiling a quiet woman's laughter answered.

I found the guest book under the table. Why was it there? Our names. The number of carts. Twenty sacks of salt. Arrival - today. Death - tomorrow: "Went down together with the road into Yaremyn Yar". The ink was old, cracked. Opposite my name stood: "Serve the ring separately. The guest must recognize himself." The host covered the line with his palm. - It is not polite to read the ending before supper.

I traded bowls with Marko. We laid our spoons crosswise and did not look away. The stove cracked. For a moment the room went black. When the fire came back, my bone with the ring lay before me again. In Marko's bowl floated his copper button. An identical one still held the collar of his shirt. Hanna was looking under the table. - He has no legs, - she whispered about the host.

Semen the merchant threw silver on the table. - Enough of this show. - Supper has already been paid for, - the host replied. Semen bit off a piece. First he laughed. Then he clutched his ribs. His dry lips turned black. Black earth came out from under his nails. - A wheel... there is a wheel on me... He was staring somewhere downward. - I can see the ravine. And I can see us driving into it all the same.

Marko rushed to the door. He stepped outside - and a moment later came in from the kitchen, wet to the waist. The second time he returned down the stairs from above. Without his cap. With a split forehead. The third time he only touched the latch. The door opened by itself, and another Marko walked into the room. The first one stood beside us. Both were silent. And from the wall by the stove his voice was begging: - No, no, it cannot be me.

Upstairs, each door bore one of our names; the host led us up there himself. In my room a body lay under a linen cloth. I touched it... The legs cold, the neck still warm. From under the cloth showed my hand with my father's ring. I bent down. Under the linen, eyes opened. - Do not eat me, - the body said in my voice. - After supper, one of us will not go home. - Which one? Under the cloth something smiled. - The one his mother recognizes, Ivan.

Radko decided to kill the host. The attempt... The knife he had stolen from the table passed through his own palm as through smoke. Upstairs, Radko's body screamed. On Radko's living hand a wound slowly opened. Out of it, instead of blood, ran green slime. The host wiped the knife with a white towel. - Careful. By the way, you will not be needing a knife - the mistress has already divided you into portions.

Behind the curtain at the end of the corridor a shadow began sorting and arranging something. Another minute and I no longer understand... I smell the apples from my mother's orchard. I walk; I have to give in. Behind the curtain a woman, her back to me, was cutting linen bundles with our names on them. On the shelves stood jars of teeth, buttons and rings. In the cauldron something was breathing. - Mama? - broke out of me. The woman answered in her voice:

- Do not be afraid, son. The pain stays with the body. To the table we serve only the memory. Under the knife lay my own palm with its burn scar. - Are you going to kill us? - I asked. The host took offense. - In my inn, guests are not killed. That is what the road is for. - And if I do not eat? - All the same, tomorrow one Ivan will die and another will go home. But the world has already chosen whom to mourn.

I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, I was already pushing the bowl away. In the book on the table new words surfaced: "Ivan. The supper is growing cold. The place in the kitchen is free." At dawn the doors opened above Yaremyn Yar. The earth crawled. Carts, oxen and men vanished below. Under a wheel lay I, in my own coat. On the finger remained a white mark where the ring had been. My ring was on the living hand. Mother opened the door and asked whose boy I might be.

Since then I have lived under another man's name. Today, in the guest book of our inn, words surfaced: "The half-eaten guest has returned." In the bowl a bone is growing cold. On it - my father's ring.