Harlequin's Millions (14 page)

Humorist
and the satirical magazine the
Arrow
. On each of these targets was written the name of the winning
rifleman and the date of the contest. Not far from the wooden restaurant was a round white bandstand. Mr. Procházka had quickly adapted to his new surroundings. In addition to a dog, cat and various birds he also had two tame otters that, or so they say, would bring him fish from the Elbe. I never actually saw them do that, but when he whistled through his fingers the otters came running out of the Elbe and climbed up onto his shoulder, I did see that … He said, and we who had been listening to him all looked to where Ostrov lay in the river, right near the little town, and Mr. Václav Kořínek added enthusiastically … It was just like in the movies. Like the first traveling cinema, a great attraction in those days, they used to show movies in Goatskin Alley, which got its name in the days when livestock markets were held in the streets of the little town. In Saint George Street was a horse market, in Cattle Way, which is now called Long Street, there was a cattle market, and on Na rejdišti or Goatskin Alley, the sheep and goat market. Na rejdišti used to be called Soldier Street, Watertower Street was Russian Street, Church Street, just off the square, went by the name of Broad Street, Court Street was Butcher Street, the street between the houses where the Srajers and the Dolezals lived was called Water Street, because there was a wooden water main running through it that conveyed water from the big mill to the fountain in the square.
Kolín Street, where it met the town square, became the Elbe Gate. Tyrš Street was Saint George Street. Eliška Street was once the Lištínská, the little street known as the Post Office was the Lane of Sighs. Long Street was Cattle Way, Cavalry Street, the Ramparts. The Ramparts was Carpenter Street, Malý Val … Little Hungary … But let's get back to Na rejdišti! cried Mr. Kořínek triumphantly, in March of eighteen-hundred-and-eighty-nine Mr. Kočka arrived here with his traveling anatomical-pathological museum and waxworks, where for only thirty pennies, soldiers for twenty and children for ten, in the booth and menagerie that had been built on Na rejdišti, the townspeople could feast their eyes, according to the advertisements, on a thousand specimens by the most prominent European taxodermists and thirty species of the rarest beasts of prey and hay gluttons … said Mr. Kořínek, rubbing his hands, and suddenly he drew himself up and shouted down to the little town … I could live without a museum or a waxworks, without Kočka's pathology and anatomy too, but without delicious smells? Every morning on the corner of Fort and Boleslav Streets you could smell the bread from Macháček's bakery. On winter mornings, after a frost, the bakers set out wooden boards of unbaked rolls in the courtyard, in the freezing cold, and after a while the bakers put them in the oven. This made the rolls nice and crisp and when they
came out of the oven you could smell them all the way out in the street. Opposite the bakery, on Cavalry Street, in about the fourth house, the horse butcher and sausage maker Michálek had his little shop. There you could always smell the hot meatloaf his wife divided into generous chunks with a large spoon and gave to the boys who, for only a penny, received this tasty treat in the palm of their hand, they blew on it vigorously and tossed it from one hand to the other. Another interesting shop was that of Mr. Procházka, a wood turner in Boleslav Street. The products he offered for sale smelled of polish and rare and exotic woods. Outside number one-thirty-nine was a display of whips, brooms and fishing rods, the largest of which had a paper carp dangling from its hook as if it had just been caught. Next door, a very unusual smell filled the air outside the shop at number one-thirty-eight, two steps down and you found yourself in the drugstore run by Mr. Šebor, a man with a full, soldierly beard and black-rimmed glasses. Liniments for every kind of pain, inside and out. Grandmothers went there to buy turpentine resin, which was such extraordinary ointment that when you pulled a bandage off a tender spot, a piece of skin sometimes came along with it. Mr. Šebor sold bear grease, hare lard, cocoa butter to prevent chafing and other ointments. On the corner of Boleslav and Long Streets at number one-thirty-six you could smell Mr. Šimáček's
shop, which even in those days had two entrances and sold both dry goods and groceries. On the opposite corner, at number one-thirty-five, was Salomon Klein's alehouse, where the air smelled of Allasch, Diavolo and Mogador and there was often the figure of some unfortunate drunk lying on the sidewalk. The first house on the square was number one-thirty-one and was owned by sausage maker Bártl. On cool evenings, whenever the shop doors opened, the smell of fresh smoked sausages rushed out and lingered under the arcade. There was another shop that you could smell out in the arcade, and that was number one-twenty-eight, the tobacconist's. You had to go up two steps to get to the shop, which was owned by Mr. Wehr and was always filled with the smell of tobacco. Back then many people still smoked cigars and took snuff. During the daytime older men smoked long cigars, very occasionally a short one, and on Sundays, a Habano. Young men smoked cheroots. Cigarette smokers, who were in the minority, smoked cheap brands like Ungar, Drama or Sport, or the more expensive Memphis or Sultan. Choosy smokers filled their rolling paper with shag tobacco, a fine-cut blend, golden yellow and sold in tins. At number one-twenty-seven was Mr. Hynek Šípek's bakery, later owned by Mr. Kulich. In the morning the arcade outside the bakery smelled of fresh bread. Each fragrant loaf had a dark crust, delectable flavor and
one imperfection, which was that the mother of a large family would have sliced up more than half of it by suppertime. A little farther down at number one-twenty-six was an apothecary shop. We always held our breath when we opened the glazed door. Inside, moving about silently behind large porcelain jars with Latin labels, was the apothecary himself, he would open one of the jars, dribble something into a small bottle on the scale, add a few drops of distilled water, a pinch of powder, and little boys like us watched in complete silence, eyes like saucers, and were glad when they had been handed their medicine and could get out of there … Where are all those delectable smells, where have they gone, don't we still have the right to enjoy them?… Shouted Mr. Kořínek, and in his voice you could hear the resentment he bore against the little town where the time of fragrant smells, of good food and spices, of medicines and soaps, had stood still. Mr. Rykr gently squeezed my elbow, he pointed down at the cemetery and said … There below lies our poet Otakar Theer, at the age of seventeen he published a collection of poems called
The Groves Where People Dance
, under the pseudonym Otto Gulon … This was followed in nineteen-hundred by the collection
Journeys to My Self
. In nineteen-hundred-and-three the book of short stories and novellas
Under the Tree of Love
was published … In nineteen-hundred-and-twelve the book of poetry
Fear and Hope
, a year
later the collection
Defiance
. Otakar Theer's last poetical work was the ancient tragedy
Phaethon
. First performed in the Prague National Theater on the thirteenth of April, nineteen-hundred-and-seventeen. Rudolf Deyl as
Phaethon
, Růžena Nasková and Leopolda Dostalová in the other roles. The play was met with critical acclaim and was a resounding success. But Theer was unable to revel in that success for very long. After the premiere, while hanging wreaths and bouquets he had received in the theater on the walls of his house, he fell from a ladder, suffered internal injuries and was confined to his bed. On the sixth of September he was rushed to Vinohrady Hospital, where on the twentieth of December, after weeks of agony, he died, barely thirty-seven years old … Said the witness to old times Otokar Rykr with emotion, and he leaned over the railing and his voice rang out over the little town … Tell us, why did Karel Hynek Mácha have to help put out a fire and ruin his health and die? Tell us, why did Otakar Theer have to hang wreaths and bouquets all over his house and fall from a ladder and die? Why did our poet Karel Hlaváček have to go running off to Sokol, catch pneumonia, and die?

        S
UNDAYS AT THE RETIREMENT HOME ALWAYS BEGAN
on Thursday and Friday. The residents would start preparing to look forward to someone coming to visit, someone from the family, usually children who had children of their own, and so the pensioners would spend what little money they had on boxes of chocolates and truffles. On those days some of the pensioners seemed to perk up a bit, as if they had awakened from a deep melancholy, and were feeling better again. But the ones who made the most preparations for those Sunday visits were those who never had any visitors. And so on Sunday morning, bright and early, small groups of pensioners would be gathered here and there in the courtyard, when it rained they sat in the Count's great vestibule, but some couldn't bear it and kept going out in the rain
to see if anyone was driving up the avenue of old chestnuts that starts at the chapel and goes uphill, they'd peer all the way down to the bottom of the road, and sooner or later a car always came driving up the hill toward the gate, and the pensioners would hurry back to the vestibule, settle themselves into an armchair and put on their best smile, they watched the door, but those same pensioners who had run outside so impatiently to await the arrival of their beloved family were the ones whom hardly anyone ever came to see. More likely, someone would come whom no one had expected, or had even had time to expect, this was often the case with the five little groups of pensioners who sat and played cards all day, and when the nurses came to tell them that their relatives had arrived, that they had visitors, they had to quickly finish up their game of Mariáš and then, sulking, they left the card table and went downstairs to the reception hall, if it was a nice day they took their relatives to a bench in the park or in the courtyard, and still sulking, told them to have a seat, and then the relatives, when they saw that they hadn't been expected the way one expects to be expected, actually felt better, they were glad to see that their father or father-in-law was much too busy with other things, they were glad that the pensioner was making their visit easier, that he was still a person who didn't sit around waiting for members of his family to rescue him, to brighten
up his Sunday, but who without even trying to hide his impatience kept looking at his watch, continually pushing back his sleeve to keep an eye on the time, which passed inexorably, while upstairs his friends sat waiting for him to return so they could resume their game of Mariáš, that eternally moveable feast, that perennial Sunday that was always marked in red on the calendar, because playing cards is much more fun than telling all those pointless stories that had been told and retold in the family while there still was time. I never expected anyone, and if someone did stop by I made it clear that I was happy to see them, but that I'd be even happier when they left, because I've come to realize that there is a time for everything, I've even discovered, here in the retirement home, that this is the first time I've ever been able to take a good look at what is going on around me, and on the faces of all these people I could see and read their fate, I could write a book about it, I saw their fate like those old gypsy women who can read palms or see human destiny in a cup of coffee grounds, I saw in each of them that everything was written not just on their faces, but also in the way they walked, on their whole body. That's why all I did was walk and look around, I tried to assess the relationships between people, and that wasn't too hard, because all people, even though they may try to pretend, are easy to read, easy to assess. So on sunny Sunday mornings
when the visitors poured in and sat down next to the pensioners on chairs and benches and brought cakes and gifts and flowers, I saw that most of them looked rather gloomy, as if life outside the retirement home was almost unbearable, when I walked around and listened to snatches of conversation, all I could hear was people complaining, about how they'd had to stand in line for vegetables and meat, and that if they wanted to buy fresh rolls and bread in the morning, very often the baked goods weren't delivered till noon, or even later in the day, I heard them complaining that the streets were all dug up, that their houses had to be torn down, that it was no longer safe to walk through Prague after dark because you might fall into a trench, some visitors claimed, even though it was a beautiful day, that they'd been caught in a terrible storm along the way, a hurricane, there had been several accidents, which meant they'd had to take a roundabout route through the countryside in order to get here, to say hello to their mama or papa, and that they'd also had to order the cake ahead of time, because if they didn't buy it on Friday, by Saturday there wouldn't be so much as a cream puff left on the bakery shelves. And so I walked around and saw all the relatives trying to suggest that here, in the retirement home, in this castle, while it wasn't exactly paradise, it was certainly a haven of tranquility, some took a tour of the place, they walked around looking
at the corridors full of flowers, they peeked into the dining hall, where that enormous fresco raged across the ceiling, and when they returned, they were bursting with enthusiasm and said that if they could, they'd retire tomorrow, there was no place they'd rather live than here, in Count Å pork's castle. And the pensioners smiled quietly, most of the women had spruced themselves up, they had put on their very best dresses, they smiled, and when they tried to explain that things weren't quite the way the relatives said they were, that being here on your own and condemned to live in a room with eight others, while those who had money and could afford it, like me, were allowed to live in twos, when they tried to explain all that, the relatives would throw up their hands and implore them not to speak such blasphemy, and once again they described to them in abundant detail those lovely walks around the castle grounds, those lovely roads to the little town, which was the loveliest little town they'd ever seen, once again they grabbed their mothers and fathers under the arm, and while the grandchildren stuffed themselves with cake, they took them for a stroll through the castle park, where the rows of Baroque sandstone statues stood along the footpaths among the pruned old beeches, the visitors pretended to take great interest in the statues, which they surely never would have noticed if these statues of the months carved from sandstone by Braun
and his pupils hadn't given them the perfect opportunity to point out to the pensioners certain details, the lovely heads and breasts, and when the pensioner now tried to tell them that things weren't nearly as lovely inside, that when night came and everyone wanted to sleep, they kept each other awake with all their coughing, with their tossing and turning and digestive troubles, that even though they never lacked for company here, well, that was terrible too, because they could never be alone anymore, alone in their own home, the way they used to be, the way the young people who came to visit still could. But as soon as a pensioner indicated that he wanted to let them know there was another side to these splendid surroundings, the relatives quickly got down on their knees and tried to make out the German inscriptions on the plinth, they took great pains to decipher and read out syllable by syllable the names of the months carved into the stone and weather-beaten and blurred by moss, because the statues had stood there for more than two hundred years … And then all of a sudden those who had come to visit, and this was always at the very moment the pensioner was about to pour out his heart, not so much because he had to live here with all those others, but because old age was terrible, there was nothing one could do about it, of course, but young people should be grateful they were still young, because every pensioner would be more
than glad to stand in line for vegetables, or bread, he'd be more than glad to walk through the broken-up streets of Prague and other cities, more than glad to go to his butcher and order meat for a certain hour, more than glad to do anything, if only he could be young again, younger than he was, so he could take care of himself when his time had come, when he was bedridden and powerless, and the nurses had to bring him the chamber pot and wipe his bottom the way you do with little children … I saw how, whenever the situation arose that a pensioner wanted to say something truthful to his children, let them know they should appreciate the fact that they were young, each of the relatives, whose responsibility it was to prevent such outpourings of emotion, would glance at his watch and gasp, he'd even clap his hand to his forehead and wail, hurry, we've got to get back, and suddenly everything seemed to be over, like a market or a festival or an outdoor picture show hit by a cloudburst, the relatives hurriedly said their good-byes, snatched up their bags, grabbed their children by the hand and pulled them so hard they practically flew through the air, because in less than half an hour the train or bus would be leaving, and if they had come by car, they suddenly all had to be home on time, where an important visitor was waiting for them who would decide whether something could be arranged concerning admission to a high school, or where
something important had to be finished, even if it was a nice day the relatives suddenly looked up at the sky, inhaled deeply and could smell that a storm was brewing, that the skies would roar and the rain would pour and the tires on their car were worn and would skid on a wet road … And the pensioners pretended to be even more dismayed by all this, they made a great show of concern, and then the relatives went away, turning back to wave their handkerchiefs and hands until they reached the gate … and when they were standing at the Count's elaborately forged wrought-iron gate with its doors open like the gigantic wings of the angel Gabriel, they turned back one last time, wept, and then waved slowly, as if this were the very last time they would ever see each other and that they would never, never meet again … And I just wandered around, I pretended to be watching the tips of my shoes as they slid out alternately from under my long skirt, or listening to the sand crunching under my shoe soles, but from the corner of my eye I could clearly see the pensioners standing there in the middle of the courtyard, next to a small table, leaning on the tabletop and waving with their free hand, like someone waving from his sickbed at departing relatives as they back away to the door, for the very last time, because his days and hours are numbered. And when the relatives were gone, the smiles always fell from the pensioners' faces, they came unstuck like the sole
of an old shoe, and there was silence, everything that had taken place on visiting day, the whole show, was played back on the inside of closed eyelids. And late in the afternoon, after the visitors had left, all the vases were filled with flowers, I always had the feeling when I saw those visitors arriving with bouquets of flowers, when I saw them making their festive entrance, that it was as if they were coming to visit a grave on the name day or birthday of the deceased, or at Christmas, I came to the conclusion that these visits were actually a kind of preparation for the funeral, every visiting relative wanted to convince himself of this, but was afraid to look at anyone directly, so instead each visitor stole a searching glance at his or her parent, or grandparent, or uncle, or aunt, whenever they bent over, whenever they turned around, to try to see from the scrawny neck, the shaking hand, whether that relative was ripe for the coffin, whether he was preparing himself for man's final resting place, the graveyard. The only pensioners who always looked good were the ones who waited faithfully, even though nobody ever came to see them. Every few minutes they walked to the gate, each time they heard the sound of a car their faces lit up with excitement, but each time they realized that the visitor had come for someone else, they went pale, closed their eyes and walked away, only to return moments later, with that same sense of excitement, to the gate, whose
doors were open wide to the town, and look from there to the bottom of the road to see if anyone else was coming. And their Sunday lunch was very much like that of the pensioners who hurried through their meal so they could get back to their never-ending game of Mariáš, they even wrapped their dessert in a napkin and went back out into the courtyard or, if it was raining, to the front door, they stood in the doorway and stared out at the rainy courtyard and rubbed their eyes so they could see if anyone came running through the downpour. Those were the pensioners I was most fond of, because early in the evening, when the gate was shut, these pensioners headed straight for bed, not only was their temperature above normal, but with all that waiting they had developed a real fever, because they had been waiting for no one, not really hoping, just waiting for the sake of waiting, so that they had spent their lovely or rainy but always lovely Sunday waiting for the arrival of someone they knew, like the relatives or friends who came to visit the others. When Uncle Pepin began to have trouble seeing and walking, in order for him to get more exercise, we used to take him mushroom hunting, the day before, Francin would go to the market and buy three wild mushrooms, he always went to the market because he could tell by the quantity and price of the mushrooms on sale there how many mushrooms were growing in the forest. If they cost twenty crowns per
kilo, they were plentiful, if they were forty crowns, they'd be scarce. And he always asked the vendor where he'd gotten them and that's where we'd go looking for mushrooms. If we set out at dawn for the station in our little town and there were a hundred other mushroomers waiting with their baskets for the morning train to Dymokury, we knew right away there would be plenty of mushrooms, but if there were only five mushroomers, that meant mushrooms would be hard to find. And so sometimes there would be a few hundred mushroomers swarming out of the station in Dymokury and if any of those mushroomers got ahead of us, Francin would run up behind them and hold up one of the three ceps he'd been hiding in his basket and call out to the mushroomers … Are you sure you're looking hard enough? And he'd show them the cep and cut off the stem and put it back in his basket, and then he'd go up behind the next mushroomer and hold up the second cep and show it to him … Have you ever seen such beauties? and he'd cut off the stem and hand it to Uncle Pepin, who sniffed enthusiastically at the cep and cried … Damn, that's a fine-looking fungus! And by the time he'd held up the third cep behind the third mushroomer the other mushroomers were in such a state of turmoil that from then on they couldn't function properly … But there were always a few hundred mushroomers in the forest who lost and couldn't find