The Club
The inhabitants of Brno have long been used to the presence of many
quirky characters which complete the cultural mosaic of the city. They have
been passing these apparently less fortunate citizens with little regard or
thought. However, the amount of involvement of these unique figures in the
smooth run of Brno and possibly the whole country might be of much greater
importance than it seems.
I
Dobrosh
is dead. The news spread through the consciousness of Brno, emerging from
within the homeless community at first, but quickly seeping into the whispers
and comments on trams and buses of the public transportation, and of course
eventually taking to social media.
The
facebook walls of middle-class college kids soon filled with vague claims of
acquaintance with the destitute man and a video of him playing a public piano
has been shared many times over. His music was surprisingly well articulated
and the scene was all the more touching for the imagined expression of
remembrance of a different kind of life somewhere in his past on his rather
amiable face, now obviously plagued by many years of continuous drinking, hard
times in the cold of many winters, and boredom of the long hours around the
noon, the curse of the life on the streets.
Some
users even expressed their grief with a crying emoji – piety at the touch of a
mouse button. Meanwhile, the people who actually knew him honored his memory in
the underpass. Clad in multiple layers of shabby second-hand garb, they stood
in a circle around a couple of lit red cemetery candles placed on his favorite
spot where he used to play his flute to earn some change from the passers-by.
One of the mourners was strumming a guitar, quite well, while another butchered
his effort with a beat, performed on a small drum, annoyingly out of rhythm.
Drunken shouts and arguments filled the space and the celebration eventually
climaxed in a brawl with the police.
Standa
paced up the street with a guitar case in one hand and a small cart with a
battery-powered amp in the other until he reached his favorite spot at the
mouth of one of the aisles running down to Masarykova street from Zelný trh
square. He prepared a mic stand, put a blues harp into a holder fixed around
his neck, and plugged the microphone and the electric guitar in. A couple of
seconds to tune the instrument and he was good to go.
He
rarely ever changed his set, composed mainly of Bob Dylan's greatest hits – he
had been doing this long enough to know that originality does not pay.
He
would spend the following two hours running through the songs twice around with
a short cigarette break in the middle of his concert. He tried to keep a
regular schedule, especially around Christmas when the earnings were the
highest thanks to the people's sense of solidarity being awakened by the spirit
of temporary, holiday-long humanism.
The
shop keepers, unlike the passers-by, stayed in hearing distance long enough to
know that you could hear The Times They Are A-Changin' always at 10:45
and 11:45 am.
A
short, lean man was sharply pacing past the McDonald's on Náměstí Svobody, the
remainder of the long hair on the top his head fluttering in the wind, his tan
face strangely deviated to the side, turned away from the direction of his
movement, the corners of his moth twitching. His fingers convulsed
uncontrollably and there was something erratic about his walk that brought on
the sense of chaotic motion even though he clearly had a very specific goal in
mind given his rush in a straight line.
He
could only ever be seen going one way – somewhere towards Joštova – several
times a day. But never in the opposite direction. Nobody really knew his real
name but some jokingly called him The Strider.
“Tram
number six, going to Starý Lískovec through Poříčí, Celní and Osová is now
leaving Mendlovo náměstí.” Announcing this message loud and proud, into what
seemed to be just a regular watch, was a middle-aged man seated on board of the
said vehicle, wearing attire that suggested a working-class background. His
calm, matter-of-factual, professional tone could inspire the conclusion that
this person truly knew what he was doing and probably had been on the job for
at least a decade.
Several
commuters turned their heads in surprise – this had not been a standard in
public transportation. Some of the others stared intently out of the windows,
trying to suppress smiles, forcing their lips to twitch and yet another group
of bystanders were laughing quite openly, unable to resist the temptation,
knowing that The Announcer was in fact just a publicly-known nut job, his watch
was just a watch. Living inside of his personal matrix, his strange but
harmless haunts of trams inspired probably by the trauma of his being fired
from a beloved job with the public transportation company, he was the source of
comedy for anyone who realized the true nature of his announcements.
II
Dobrosh
had been dead for several years and the city had forgotten, quietly going about
its business – Standa went on with his busking, The Strider continued his
life's mission of fast pacing and The Announcer managed to keep the people of
Brno informed about their travels. Who had the time to think about one dead
homeless looser when the current president Zeman died suddenly and a snap
election was about to be held in just a couple of days? According to the polls,
the candidate with the highest chance of becoming the next leader of the state
was the former Minister of Finance, present premier Andrej Babiš, who was
presently touring major Czech cities to trade free sausages and beer for some
last minute sympathy in the direct vote. His visit of Brno was scheduled in two
days' time.
At 3am,
a short, lean figure was sharply pacing through the darkness. Street lamps cast
multiple long shadows at the fountain at Zelný trh square, his destination. His
chaotic convulsions suddenly stopped about ten steps away from it and he
approached the opening in the fountain's side slowly, calmly and with the
confidence of someone who knew exactly what they were looking for. The Strider
inserted his finger into Hercules' lion's head's right socket and pushed a
hidden button, allowing a trap-door to open. He then descended into the cold
halls under the square, the door closing behind him without a sound. Faint
tones of piano music were rising from beneath the ground.
The
Strider entered a large room with damp bare stone walls and assumed his place
behind a circular stone table. The others were already seated. A gaunt
silhouette rose up from behind a piano in the corner of the hall, slowly
walking towards the rest of the group, then taking its place in the largest of
the stone arm-chairs around the table. He spoke softly but firmly:
“Welcome
to the last briefing before Mission B. This is merely to confirm that every one
of us knows their responsibilities. Is everything clear?”
A
unison of voices echoed through the hall: “Aye!”
“Very
well. Remember, the times they are a-changing tomorrow, 5pm, Freedom Square.
Let us repeat the success of Mission Z. Long live Brno!”
“Long
live Brno!”
The
Announcer was staring out of the tram's window, looking at the black limousine
standing in front of Hotel Grand. When it finally set off, he lifted his wrist
to his mouth and exclaimed loud and proud:
“The
vehicle is now passing the main station and will reach its final destination in
about 3 minutes.”
Several
commuters turned their head in surprise and the tram stirred with suppressed
laughter.
The
Strider reached the spot where Standa had his busking station at náměstí
Svobody just when Babiš was thanking his audience which was applauding
excitedly from under the stage. With the last wave of his hand, the premier
started descending the stairs leading down from the stage and The Strider
turned the volume knob on Standa's amplifier to the right and the whole square
froze as the words of the song hit the walls of the surrounding buildings:
“Come
gather round people wherever you roam...”
The
politician raised his left eyebrow in open contempt towards the street musician.
With
the third “the times they are a-changin',” a sound of a small muffled
detonation came from under the premier's feet and he disappeared into the
ground in a cloud of dust and smoke.
The music
stopped playing, the people screamed in panic, running about aimlessly. The
words “terrorists,” “Muslims,” “immigrants,” “European Union” and “Kalousek”
echoed through the streets.
It took
several moments for everyone to notice that the upper half of a person with a
very amiable face was peering out of the hole in the ground.
Dobrosh
exclaimed cheerfully: “I claim this person on behalf of The Prince of
Darkness.” He added diabolical laughter, the artist's final touch, as a new
round of screaming ensued. He continued smiling even though the police were
making their way towards him. He remained calm and optimistic for he had
nothing to fear – after all, he had officially been dead for quite some time
now.
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