Dead Heat Read online

  Biblioasis International Translation Series

  General Editor: Stephen Henighan

  1. I Wrote Stone: The Selected Poetry of Ryszard Kapuściński (Poland)

  Translated by Diana Kuprel and Marek Kusiba

  2. Good Morning Comrades

  by Ondjaki (Angola)

  Translated by Stephen Henighan

  3. Kahn & Engelmann

  by Hans Eichner (Austria-Canada)

  Translated by Jean M. Snook

  4. Dance With Snakes

  by Horacio Castellanos Moya (El Salvador)

  Translated by Lee Paula Springer

  5. Black Alley

  by Mauricio Segura (Quebec)

  Translated by Dawn M. Cornelio

  6. The Accident

  by Mihail Sebastian (Romania)

  Translated by Stephen Henighan

  7. Love Poems

  by Jaime Sabines (Mexico)

  Translated by Colin Carberry

  8. The End of the Story

  by Liliana Heker (Argentina)

  Translated by Andrea G. Labinger

  9. The Tuner of Silences

  by Mia Couto (Mozambique)

  Translated by David Brookshaw

  10. For as Far as the Eye Can See

  by Robert Melançon (Quebec)

  Translated by Judith Cowan

  11. Eucalyptus

  by Mauricio Segura (Quebec)

  Translated by Donald Winkler

  12. Granma Nineteen and the Soviet’s Secret

  by Ondjaki (Angola)

  Translated by Stephen Henighan

  13. Montreal Before Spring

  by Robert Melançon (Quebec)

  Translated by Donald McGrath

  14. Pensativities: Essays and Provocations

  by Mia Couto (Mozambique)

  Translated by David Brookshaw

  15. Arvida

  by Samuel Archibald (Quebec)

  Translated by Donald Winkler

  16. The Orange Grove

  by Larry Tremblay (Quebec)

  Translated by Sheila Fischman

  17. The Party Wall

  by Catherine Leroux (Quebec)

  Translated by Lazer Lederhendler

  18. Black Bread

  by Emili Teixidor (Catalonia)

  Translated by Peter Bush

  19. Boundary

  by Andrée A. Michaud (Quebec)

  Translated by Donald Winkler

  20. Red, Yellow, Green

  by Alejandro Saravia (Bolivia-Canada)

  Translated by María José Giménez

  21. Bookshops: A Reader’s History

  by Jorge Carrión (Spain)

  Translated by Peter Bush

  22. Transparent City

  by Ondjaki (Angola)

  Translated by Stephen Henighan

  23. Oscar

  by Mauricio Segura (Quebec)

  Translated by Donald Winkler

  24. Madame Victoria

  by Catherine Leroux (Quebec)

  Translated by Lazer Lederhendler

  25. Rain and Other Stories

  by Mia Couto (Mozambique)

  Translated by Eric M. B. Becker

  26. The Dishwasher

  by Stéphane Larue (Quebec)

  Translated by Pablo Strauss

  27. Mostarghia

  by Maya Ombasic (Quebec)

  Translated by Donald Winkler

  28. Dead Heat

  by Benedek Totth (Hungary)

  Translated by Ildikó Noémi Nagy

  DEAD HEAT

  BENEDEK TOTTH

  TRANSLATED FROM THE HUNGARIAN BY

  ILDIKÓ NOÉMI NAGY

  BIBLIOASIS

  WINDSOR, ONTARIO

  Let them think what they liked, but I didn’t mean to drown myself. I meant to swim till I sank—but that’s not the same thing.

  —Joseph Conrad: The Secret Sharer

  Wild Boar

  We’re flying down the new bypass when Ducky turns to ask where the fuck we are, but no one says a damn word ’cause they’re all clueless I guess, or they don’t wanna say something dumb that’ll just confuse him and get us even more lost. I don’t know the neighbourhood, plus it’s not like you can actually see anything in this shitty weather, but I’d be really happy if we figured out where we are, ’cause there’s no way in hell we’re gonna get home otherwise.

  “Isn’t that the slaughterhouse?” I say, pointing to a huge factory building that looks vaguely like a wild boar.

  Ducky’s like, dafuq you talkin bout? and even though he turns his head in the right direction, he misses it ’cause the view’s suddenly blocked by sound barriers on either side and everything’s all stretched out kinda like in Star Wars when they make the jump to light speed. There’s something Harrison Fordish about Ducky actually, especially if you look at him from the back when it’s dim. He’s always the one driving, even though he doesn’t have a licence, he just borrows Mishy’s. Mishy is his cousin and they totally look alike on the ID picture. How the kid even landed his permit is beyond me, ’cause he won’t be sixteen till next summer, but no one’s gotten busted with it yet. I seriously doubt Ducky’s ever gonna have his own licence. He flunked the driving test three times, even though his old man paid off the examiner.

  Even now we’re tearing down the road in one of his pop’s whips. Of course the little shit’s saying that Pop let him take it, but I know he didn’t. Ducky’s pop is cool but there’s no way he’d just hand over a three-hundred-horsepower sedan worth eighty-five grand to his son. Ducky’s gripping the wheel with one hand, his other hand fumbling around inside a McDonald’s bag, till he yanks out a Big Mac and stuffs it in his face, whole. Wilted bits of lettuce drop into his lap. Zoli-boy leans forward, to ask something I guess, but as he tries to squeeze his head between the seats, he head-butts the backrest hella hard. He’s always hyped as fuck no matter what he smokes or pops. I have no idea what booze does to him though, ’cause he never drinks. I lean forward super casual, trying to peek over Ducky’s shoulder to read the speedometer, but then the jittery blue line of numbers detaches from the dash, floats off into space, and all I can piece together is that they start with a three or an eight. The car interior’s swirling with dense, sticky smoke, like we were sitting inside a huge bag of cotton candy. Ducky glances down into his lap, trying to sweep the pieces of lettuce onto the floor, and he fumbles around long enough to smear the sauce all over his pants.

  “Fucking hell! I’m gonna blow up that motherfucking Burger King!”

  He’s going batshit crazy.

  “We were at McDonald’s,” Zoli-boy points out quietly, patting his forehead.

  “I don’t give a shit,” Ducky growls.

  “Chill, dude,” Buoy grins, zen as fuck. “It’ll come out of fake leather easy.”

  Buoy’s a polo player and got his name from no one being able to drag him underwater. He’s two hundred and thirty pounds of solid muscle. The math geeks named a unit of measurement after him. And he was the first one with hair on his balls.

  “Whaddya mean fake leather, asshole?” Ducky barks, insulted.

  “Fake leather,” Buoy says. “Like train seats.”

  “Your dick is what’s fake,” Ducky tries to shoot back, but he’s bursting with laughter.

  Buoy rides shotgun and stretches out all comfy on the reclined seat, like on a deck chair, a fat joint glowing between his middle and ring fingers. He’s hella faded too, not even breathing really, just gri
nning into space like a big yellow banana. I start counting to see how long he can go without air when he jerks awake from his stupor. He glances at the spliff and takes a sleepy drag, holding the smoke in as he extends it towards the back seat. His arm’s all stretchy, like Inspector Gadget’s.

  “Thankyou, thankyou, thankyou,” Zoli-boy chants. “I thought you were gonna bograt… bograt…”

  He gets tongue tied and makes a few more attempts, but fails, so he just snatches the joint from Buoy’s hand. I’m super grateful, ’cause now I don’t have to move if I want to smoke. Zoli-boy inhales a couple of quick hits, and as he tugs the j from his mouth, the paper sticks to his lips and tears at the tip. It seems like an eternity by the time he passes the joint, but I’m in no hurry. I want to enjoy every second of it. I smooth the paper back carefully and roll the warm blunt between my fingers for a while. It scratches my throat a little as I inhale. They stuffed it with too much tobacco again, that’s why it’s so fat, not from the weed. Ducky’s freaking out that his old man will smell the hash, but I doubt old Pops even knows what weed smells like, and it’s not like he’ll bust our balls just ’cause we’re smoking. He’s always got a cigarette dangling from his lips when he’s driving.

  “What was in that thing?” Buoy asks, wrinkling his forehead.

  His words turn over slowly in his mouth, like that Bud Spencer-lookalike TV healer, who screws over cancer-ridden old folks.

  “Hash, nigga,” Ducky tells him. He’s been crazy about some hick gangsta rappers for the last couple of months. That’s what he’s punishing us with on the amps now, and whenever he gets high it’s all nigga this and nigga that and he starts talking in rhymes.

  “I mean that Big Mac,” Buoy says, squinting.

  The smoke stings his eyes.

  “The Big Mac?” Ducky asks.

  “Yeah,” Buoy says, then burps his words, “sm-ells fu-ck-ing fo-ul.”

  He can burp even longer sentences than that. His stomach’s as big as his lungs.

  “You keep talking shit and you’re out,” Ducky says, trying to act tough.

  Buoy swirls the ice cubes around in his cup, chilling, knowing it’s an empty threat. Ducky’s scared of even slowing down ever since he managed to get the car in drive. There’s no way he’s stopping now in the middle of nowhere just to kick Buoy out. Fucking foul reminds me of a joke, but I’m kinda hoarse and by the time I clear my throat, Buoy’s got his nasal laugh cranked and I forget what I was gonna say.

  “The chicks…” he screeches, slapping his knee. “The chicks…” he’s choking, eyes welling up. “They dipped their…” he gasps for air, “…their… in the ketchup…”

  He says something else, maybe about tampons, but I can’t really catch it, because he’s wiping his eyes and snorting. Me and Zoli-boy are just staring at him, and he’s looking at Ducky, and then back at us. He’s a nice guy, but sometimes I worry about him.

  “There’s no ketchup in Big Macs,” Zoli-boy pipes up, “it’s special sauce made from a secret recipe.”

  He pronounces it cat-sup. Zoli-boy’s a wage slave at McDonald’s, so he knows his stuff.

  “Yeah, special jerk-off sauce…” Ducky cuts his sentence short, glancing down at the last bite of Big Mac between his thumb and index finger.

  Buoy screeches with laughter again, and Ducky’s getting wound up. Through the rear-view mirror I can see his face clench.

  “Nobody jerks off during work,” Zoli-boy retorts to the insult.

  He’s full of shit. Everyone’s always jerking it.

  Ducky grumbles something and stuffs the rest of his Big Mac into the ashtray.

  There’s no music for a couple of seconds. We slide soundlessly through the night. Then, when the next track starts up, Buoy asks:

  “Hey, Zoli-boy, who was that bitch?”

  “Which one?” Zoli-boy asks.

  “The redhead at the ice cream machine,” I say, and Buoy nods.

  I noticed her too. Why she’s busting her ass at Mickey D’s when she’s got tits that size is beyond me.

  “That’s not ice cream,” Zoli-boy corrects. “It’s called a sundae and you can get it with hot fudge or strawberry sauce.”

  “Sure, Zoli-boy, a sundae,” Buoy nods like an old professor. “But why don’t you tell us about the chick instead?”

  Zoli-boy clams up.

  Buoy turns around. His pupils are the size of the Great Lakes.

  “You’d bone her, right?”

  Zoli-boy gets all embarrassed, he stammers, I can’t catch a thing, and then he falls silent.

  “The matchstick with the huge knockers?” Ducky says, joining the conversation. “I’d bone her,” he adds with a crazed grin, and then accidentally turns on the windshield wipers. He swears, feeling around for the switch, he signals right, signals left, flashes the high beam—a deer or wild boar seems to stare back at us from behind a bush—until finally he floods the windshield with wiper fluid. When Buoy’s had enough of his dicking around, he reaches in front of Ducky and turns the wipers off. Before, you couldn’t see from the smear of bugs. Now, the wiper fluid is trickling down nice and slow. Buoy turns the windshield wipers back on instead. We keep at it like this, but the rubber blade’s drowsy scrubbing starts to hypnotize Ducky. His head moves right to left at a steady pace. I reach forward and tap Buoy on the shoulder, and when he looks at me, I point at Ducky. Buoy gets the drift and quickly turns the wipers off. Then he waves his hand in front of Ducky’s face till the kid jolts from his trance and shakes his head.

  I was gonna say something before about the redhead or the lettuce, but I can’t decide if I actually said something or if I just imagined saying something. When I finally get to thinking that I probably just convinced myself that I said something, I suddenly realize what I did want to say, or what I thought I wanted to say, but by that time I’m not in the mood to say anything anymore. I look up and the high beam illuminates a huge stop sign with a man-sized fluorescent hand. The hand’s not there ’cause it wants a high five, that’s for sure. Ducky’s taken the wrong lane or maybe he just doesn’t know what it means. He was probably absent the day they covered traffic signs. The grey pavement shines wet, like a giant slug. My brain keeps making up shit like that. Not so long ago we swiped a sack of escargots from the gypsies, lugged it over to a plant nursery, and dumped it over the fence so the little bastards could gorge themselves. I was in the neighbourhood a couple of days ago and the sign was still hanging on the gate: Closed due to technical issues. It’s weird that the guardrail is to the left, but whatever, ’cause the bypass is totally deserted, there’s not a single oncoming vehicle, not even a snoozing Romanian trucker or a Ukrainian van with curtained windows.

  Ducky starts groping around again. He presses a button, and as the window slides down, he grabs the leftover fries in his right hand and tosses them. Meanwhile, the car starts drifting towards the ditch. My palms get clammy. I see my face reflected in the window. This can’t be me. I don’t want it to be me, despite the smile. The face is way too freaky. It’s too old, or too young, I can’t decide, and it’s staring straight at me, grinning, but I’m not grinning, that’s for sure. Then it turns into a sparkly skull—a huge, grinning skull—and I face forward, locking my gaze on the backrest.

  “Stay on the road,” Buoy says to Ducky, and then he starts feeling around for the button to roll down the window. I’ve still got the joint. I take a drag. Buoy finds the button. Now that both windows are open, crazy airstreams form in the interior. Strands of my hair scratch at the cool air. Zoli-boy clasps his hands over his ears and begs us to roll the windows up. Buoy presses the button. As the window slides closed my ears get plugged up, but when I try to pop them, I freak out. What if my eardrums get ruptured and my brains spill out? You can clean fake leather pretty easily though. The music is a dull thud coming from the speakers. Either that or we’re gonna have a fucking mega-storm. B
uoy grabs the monster drink cup teetering on top of the dash’s centre panel, which he’s been propping up with his knee till now ’cause it didn’t fit in the cup holder. He manoeuvres the straw into his mouth while his cheeks get all dented as he sucks on the drink. Automobile factories can’t seem to keep pace with fast-food joints. My mouth waters. I look out the window. The face is gone and I start to think about how the universe is expanding at a fucking mind-blowing pace, but I’ll bet that some fast-food chain already has dibs on all the lots out there and when the first astronaut shows up, they’ll already have a couple of McSpaces open so you can tear into a double cheeseburger with large fries and large coke right away, ’cause that’s the best meal deal.

  I lean between the seats and stare at the speedometer. The numbers blur on the digital display, but then everything’s clear again for a second and I can see we’re barrelling down the bypass at 177 kph. It’s like we’re shooting straight ahead, but I think the road’s actually curving. I lean back to one side and my face presses against the cold window. Ducky pushes down even harder on the accelerator. The engine’s strong. The car pulls intensely and I’m thrust back into a leather seat the colour of runny shit. We all chipped in so the gas tank’s topped up. I’m already sorry I did ’cause I sure as shit don’t wanna die broke. Last summer a couple of guys from near the lake went shooting out a curve by that door-and-window factory and wrapped themselves around an old millennium oak tree that had survived hundreds of storms, two world wars, and even the highway construction. They’d filled the tank full of 99 octane V-Power fuel right before, and they fucking exploded. The tree went up in flames. An eyewitness told the local cable station that one of the guys managed to climb out of the wreck. His hair and clothes were flaming as he wobbled through the wheat field like a Vietcong who’d just gotten slammed with napalm. Twelve acres of corn were destroyed in the blaze by the time the fire department showed up and got the flames under control. Another curve. Ducky’s not slowing down. His family’s loaded. His old man just opened a cross between a pig farm and a slaughterhouse right next door to the Krishna retreat. Those poor bastards holed up in that godforsaken valley thinking they could pray till their holy cows came home, and then Ducky’s father stuffs the neighbouring lot full of fuzzy pigs. Right now he’s trying to make a deal with McDonald’s to be their domestic supplier. One time our class took a field trip to a slaughterhouse. We got to check out the EU-regulation slaughter hall and the EU-regulation carcass pit. The butcher guy said the place was so clean you could eat off the floor.