The Cyclist Conspiracy. Svetislav Basara

a simple man and I figured like this: I have no father, I will be no one’s father. End of story. Then I met Grossman. He had been studying theology at the University of Uppsala, and they had just thrown him out. Rumor has it, because of a deal with the devil. The deal was this: the devil gives Grossman a doctoral degree, Grossman gives his soul to the devil. A fair deal, but it was against the rules of the time. Since we did not have any income back then, we only had intentions, we found jobs at “The Four Antlers” tavern. We washed dishes, kept the fire burning, carried water and cooked oxen in pepper and dill. Grossman had the habit of killing time by asking me theological riddles. For example, how many angels can stand on the head of a pin? Or, habet mulier animam? He would ask in the middle of the rush, wrapped, as if in hell, by an opaque cloud of sulfur steam from the ox horns. Then the owner would interrupt our dispute with a flourish of curses, and theology would have to wait for the nobles to stuff themselves. And stuff themselves they did. I can still hear them slurping their soup, smacking their lips, the chomping of bones, it all resounds through the ages like an echo. I almost forgot, at the time my name was Ladislav, but I did not pay much attention to that. If someone were to accidentally call me, let’s say, Ivan, then I would be Ivan. Ivan, Ladislav, Grossman, what is the difference? At that time, almost none. That is the very reason I became a king. So that I could rise above the average. But I remained average anyway. That is the conditio humana. Anyway, once the nobles had gorged themselves, I would answer Grossman in a whisper: “She doesn’t have one, a woman has no soul. I am sure of it. Women have only a cunt. The cunt is the center, the sun of their planetary system around which, and because of which, all the other organs move and function. And since the vagina is nothing, an ordinary hole, the lack of anything, emptiness, not only does a woman not have a soul – she doesn’t even exist.” “You’re wrong,” Grossman shouted to me from the cloud of his reeking soul. Poor Grossman. He knew Greek and Latin well, but he knew nothing about women. Just like his languages, he was dead. I want to say: hardly anyone knew him, it was hard to communicate with him, but he was still quite useful. Grossman taught me to write. The first use I had of Grossman. I was not interested in the skill of making slanted-thin and straight-thick lines, but in making this book, I was indeed interested. Because of this book I clumsily wrote out my first letters with my gnarled hands. Not to mention the lack of writing materials. This will be well known by even the lowest village tutor in the 19th century. As a sign of gratitude, when I became King I raised a nice mausoleum for Grossman and had the stone engraved GROSSMAN, which soothes his vanity no end. Sometimes he closes himself up in it and practices being dead. He’s careful, he leaves nothing to chance. I do not like such people. Perhaps I will bury someone else there, just to spite him. Now you have some facts which are more significant than the abovementioned about the lack of writing materials. Some future scribbler can draw a few conclusions from this and get his doctorate. First: in this time, a lot of attention is paid to tombs because of the obsession with death, and the nobles build their eternal homes while they are still alive. Second: the nobles are unusually vain, morbid, and they tend to tinker with the details. And there you have it, I also leave nothing to chance and I should not be surprised if they bury me in a potter’s field.

      At this moment, interest in my personal history practically does not exist. Only here and there do a few mentions of me sprout up. But those are just Grossman’s memories; he has more than he needs. This time and place, among other things, is flooded with memories. In spite of everything, I am writing my history because only one who has no history has the right to write it. Everyone else is biased. In the same way – he thinks best who thinks not at all. Every thought is evil. Father Albert, my confessor, told me that, and I learned it by heart. Sometimes I do not think anything for a few days. I swing on my throne, dully staring at the deer antlers on the wall, and my courtiers pass by on their tiptoes and the rumor spreads: the king is thinking. It is simply hard to believe the extent to which people will be ass-kissers. When I, for example, stabilized my power, touched by one of Grossman’s memories of the years spent in the kitchen, I bequeathed the title of baron to all my kitchen boys, all thirty-five of them. And so the dishwashers became great noblemen. All day long they sit in the taverns, gorging themselves, drinking, pinching the waitresses. Just like in that drawing by Gottfried of Mainz, Wheel of Fortune. However, they have become too decadent. The power has gone to their heads. I hear they are raising a conspiracy to overthrow me. They figure: if he, that is I, can become king without any title whatsoever, why shouldn’t we, the noblemen? But Grossman is preparing our revenge. I am going to send them all back to the kitchen. I will have several of them shot, if gunpowder has reached Europe by then. If not, I will have their heads chopped off. Still, shooting would be more effective as a novelty. It is not a bad idea once in a while to burn a witch or two at the stake, or to hold a public execution. The people love to kill but they do not have the legal right to do so, so a reasonable king has to order an execution now and then, just to allow for some relief and to preserve law and order. Otherwise, I do not believe in witches, though Grossman does. If you believe in anything other than God you become a heretic. But I am tolerant toward heretics as well. This is my doctrine: if all men are sinful, no one knows God, and therefore all theologies are heretical. Short and simple. And that’s why my kingdom is a sanctuary for heretics. They come under my auspices from all over. I am practically the forerunner of democracy. Not long ago, just in from Paris from where they had fled persecution, some Bicyclists arrived. Or something like that. I entertained their leader, Joseph Ferrarius and he showed me a clay tablet, a relic of theirs and a translation of it which I offer here in Grossman’s version of it:*

      THE BOOK OF JAVAN THE SON OF NAHOR

      The words of Javan, the son of Nahor, to those yet unborn.

      Coming from the east to the land of the Seran, I settled with my brethren, sons and flocks; and our wealth multiplied and we dwelled in harmony with the other tribes.

      And behold, builders came from elsewhere, master masons; and they lit a great fire and began to bake bricks of clay, saying: Come, let us build a tower reaching into the sky. We shall take refuge in it from the beasts of the field and winds and floods. And above us shall… (text missing)… into the ages.

      And in the sand did they draw a rather large tower. And the tower was broad at the base and a stairway wound about it like a snake, and its top did disappear in the clouds. And on the tower were gardens and streams and other beauties of the earth.

      And in the seventh year of building, I slept and a dream I did dream: behold, a wheel was on the ground… (text missing)… in form and with the device the wheels were like… and both were equal and in form with the device it seemed that one was behind the other.

      And whence the spirit did go, there went the wheels and when the spirit did fly so did they also rise, because the spirit was on wheels.

      And behold, a terrible light did blind me and I heard a voice saying unto me: “Javan, open your eyes and behold the tower that you also are building.” And I opened my eyes and beheld the tower as it rose into the heavens, and its walls were as of glass and deep inside it could I see.

      And at the bottom of the tower I saw a multitude kneeling before false priests and each of them was confessing his sufferings to a priest and telling him the desires and thoughts of his heart.

      And the priests said: Be not afraid. We… (text missing)… when you confess the thoughts of your hearts to us, we will make you happy and you will live long.

      And behold, those who desired to sin, they gathered together on one floor and did sin together, male with male and female with female; and a stench rose into the heavens and it was a torture to behold.

      And those who wanted to go to war and to do battle, the priests did send them to the floor above. And that floor was barren and without grass, and here did they go to war and kill one another, and blood flowed up to their knees. And from above did the priests watch the battle and laugh.

      And the drunkards did lie in a luscious garden and drink wine, and they spoke blasphemous words that were a torture to hear.

      And behold, the peaceful and hardworking people at the very bottom of the tower, digging and plowing, and gathering the fruits of the field, they took them to the priests. But unruly guards did come out bearing whips and began beating all who raised their voice. And they cried: Is this why