Ukázka z knihy

I’M DEAD, LEAVE A MESSAGE 
Eva Turnová

I always imagined the soul like an air sac in a gutted carp, then later as a kind of organ by the diaphragm. My adult imagining of the soul was a driving force. 
  I believed that, by dint of their talent, prodigies in the African bush would finally be driven to Carnegie Hall while Hitler stayed put, poisoned in his bunker.
  Recently, a reliable source told me that there are apparently only a finite number of souls in the world, and some people never got one. That would explain the soulless, vacant expression of certain operators, hoover demonstrators, and politicians. Others have souls but never show them for fear there is nothing there.
  That’s why I like the period around All Souls Day, when the line between the living and the dead blurs and all spirits have free reign. I’d prefer the Anglo-Saxon Hallowe’en, the wild appeasement of the dead, whose souls are trapped here spreading diseases and causing tornadoes. But I content myself with our Slavonic murmuring at graves adorned with chrysanthemums.
  We sit on the cemetery wall, and my friend, the actor Satinský, dangles his feet.
  Me: “Some people have souls but don’t show them for fear there is nothing there.“
  He: “Maybe there is nothing there, my girl. Like when everything is erased and a rare state of tranquility sets in. Which never happens in reality because someone always says something, the phones ring, bills pile up on the table, and you never figure anything out anyway, so it’s better to just have a drink. Unfortunately, I’m getting close to the last call.”
  Me: “And how do you imagine your taking off?“
  He said: “I obviously wouldn’t want my soul to be put into some idiot or a spider in the next life. But I wouldn’t like to disappear entirely either.”
  When he passed away shortly after, I couldn’t resist and dialed his number. His voice said, “I’m dead right now, leave me a message.”