Harlequin's Millions (22 page)

against the wall, astringent rivulets that restored one's youthful charm and defied old age … Pearls of Venus for pearly-white hands flew all around, clouds of rouge and talcum powder sailed past, and Dralle's Illusion, the true fragrance of lilies of the valley that quickened every woman's pulse, the scent of blue-orchid and water-lily soaps, the wind even blew anti-wrinkle strips out of their boxes and stuck them to my forehead, hair lotions, mouthwashes for teeth and tongue, I noticed a stream of liquid trickling across the bedroom floor, I stuck in my finger, sniffed, it was borax shampoo … lotions to beautify the neck and hands … And once more the wind burst into our home, it scooped up the empty, overturned cabinet, circled it twice and then brought it crashing down, into the devastation, the fragrant ruins … and at the sound of that crash I knew that the lid had banged shut, once and for all, on my past, it was all behind me now, we could take everything that was left of my Oreum to the dump, there was no longer any need for me to feel oppressed, everything had been swept away, just as when a child is finished playing with his toy figures and sweeps them off the table, to heighten the absurdity of the game …

 

       
The preceding text was written in cooperation with and in memory of three witnesses to old times, Misters Václav Kořínek, Karel Výborný and Otokar Rykr, who wrote their memories the way memories should always be written: because the moment moves you, and because you feel the need to capture something others have long forgotten, or can only barely remember. When I first read their words, I was so moved by the sense of detail that I struck up a friendship with the three men, even though they were already dead. For many years Mr. Rykr published his own books, at his own expense, Mr. Václav Kořínek published his memories in installments in a local magazine, Mr. Karel Výborný wrote them down with pen and pencil. I was able to take those painstaking descriptions, which still move me deeply, and incorporate them into my tale of the retirement home, a text in which the details are true, but the rest is fiction, from which I hope to be able to extract more truth. May Count Špork's fictitious estate, the present-day retirement home, live on in the hearts of the readers!

Apparently, it is possible to fall in love with a writer you've never met. I'm honored to have had the privilege of falling in love with Bohumil Hrabal, with his words and music and images. If he were still alive, I'd tell him so, but instead, I've made us both a promise: to continue translating his books and advising everyone to read them. Fortunately, I have the support of Jill Schoolman, the most patient, sensitive, inspiring publisher a translator could wish for. Magda van Duijkeren-Hrabová and Kees Mercks helped me solve numerous linguistic dilemmas. Daniel Blower, Shaun Whiteside, Brian Doyle, John McCleod, Matt Simpson and Heidi Knecht-Seegers supplied me with invaluable terminology. Susan Massotty, friend and fellow translator, was there, as always. Harvey and Millie Knecht, my parents, who will finally be able to read this book, never stopped encouraging me to finish. My thanks to you all.

I dedicate this translation to Teun, Jan, Caspar, Esther, Julia, Zuzu (Wheaten terrier) and especially Jakob, our handsome Airedale, who died, far too young, the same day I handed in the final manuscript. I have a feeling that Hrabal, who loved animals, would have appreciated the irony of this, and I know for a fact that Jakob thoroughly enjoyed chewing on my copy of
Harlekýnovy miliony
, the one time I accidentally left it on the dining room table.

Stacey Knecht
Zwolle, 10/20/2013

 

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