The Twelve Little Cakes (39 page)

“What are you doing here?” Dana shot me a withering look.

“I'm helping Mrs. Backyard,” I replied. “And when I'm finished, I'm allowed to take Nikina for a ride.”

The girls looked at each other. There were five of them, and they were all wearing jeans and proper riding boots. I was wearing corduroy pants and sandals. The pants were several sizes too big.

“Listen,” Helenka said in a reasonable tone of voice. “There are too many of us sharing the horses as it is.”

“There's no room for you here,” Dana said flatly.

“No way,” I shook my head. “Vendula Backyard said I could ride Nikina every Tuesday. I have as much right to be here as you do.”

Dana flung the saddle on the ground in disgust. I took two steps forward, clenching my fists. I was the smallest of all the girls in the stable, but I was a tough little customer and all of them knew it. Dana muttered something that made her friends laugh, and after that, they didn't speak to me for the rest of the afternoon. They had obviously decided to kill me with silence.

Dana and Helenka saddled Bonnie the mare, and took her outside without a look in my direction. The other girls grabbed Nikina by her halter and attempted to walk her across the yard. Vendula wasn't exaggerating when she said the pony was frisky. The girls shouted and hit her bum with twigs, but Nikina was sulky and uncooperative. She'd been friendly enough when I fed her sugar cubes earlier, so I dug the remaining cubes out of my pocket and gave them to the girls.

“Here. Try these,” I said.

The girls took the sugar and fed it to the pony, and then continued to ignore me after Nikina cheered up. I spent the afternoon waiting for them to let me have my turn, but not being too surprised when they didn't. They decided to go down to the river and I followed from a distance, watching Nikina play tricks on her riders. Whenever the girls said “Trot!” she would immediately stop and refuse to move. Whenever they said “Slowly!” the pony would dart forward like a racehorse and run half a kilometer across the fields. Nikina's favorite trick, however, was to start galloping like mad and then abruptly stop in front of a puddle.

“Noooo!” the girls would scream.

The girls were riding bareback, and Nikina's neck was as slippery as the slide at the public swimming pool. Whenever she stopped and put her head down, the girls would sail over her head and land in the puddle. It was funny to watch, and I was glad I wasn't riding the pony just yet. I would need to make friends with her first. By the end of the afternoon the girls were thoroughly soaked.

I stayed at the stables long after the girls had gone, shoveling dung into the barrow and wheeling it over to the compost heap. Then I brushed Nikina's mane and cleaned and greased her hooves. The sky outside had turned an inky blue, and I could hear Mrs. Backyard talking to her cows. I pressed my face against Nikina's chest. The scent of hay, dung, and the pony's sweat blended together and smelled good.

“I'll be back on Tuesday,” I told her. “I'll come early after school and we'll go for a ride. Would you like that?”

Nikina responded by lifting her tail and depositing a fresh load of shit onto the floor of her pen.

In the distance, I could hear my mother calling. I was late for dinner, which always made her anxious. I made one more trip to the compost heap, and then I carried my milk pails to the cowshed, hoping Mrs. Backyard hadn't finished for the day.

“Hello, Mrs. Backyard!” I called out at the doorway. “Can I fill my pails, please?”

A faint rustling from the shed indicated that Mrs. Backyard was still there. I walked inside and there was Mr. Lojda, the plumber, composing himself near the backside of a cow. He had a cigarette and was fumbling for a match. Mrs. Backyard was sitting on her stool, smoothing her shirt. Her boyish hair seemed slightly disheveled.

“You're late,” she said. The milk can at her feet was empty, but she quickly started to fill it.

“This will take a few minutes,” she told me. “In the future, I would appreciate it if you were here on time.”

“I'm sorry,” I said. “But I've been making friends with the horses. And I cleaned Nikina's stable twice!”

Mrs. Backyard continued milking in silence.

“Hello, Mr. Lojda,” I said to the maintenance man. “I hope there's nothing wrong with Mrs. Backyard's farm!”

Mr. Fix-it put a match to his cigarette and wordlessly strolled outside. I chattered happily to Mrs. Backyard until her can was full, and then she filled my pails with fresh milk. I paid her ten crowns and told her that I would be back on Tuesday to take Nikina for a ride.

“I really did a good job cleaning the stable,” I repeated. “From now on, you don't have to worry about Tuesdays. I'll take the very best care of Nikina, and her pen will be spotless.”

“I know it will,” Mrs. Backyard said dryly.

My mother was waiting for me in front of the house. She held a big wooden spoon in her hand, and the shadow she cast up the road was enormous.

“Where have you been?” she demanded.

“At Mrs. Backyard's farm!” I told her. “I helped clean the stables, and Mrs. Backyard's daughter said I could ride her pony every Tuesday as a reward! Do you think, if we asked Dad, I could have a pair of riding boots as an early Christmas and birthday present?”

“You've just had your birthday,” my mother pointed out.

“I know,” I said. “But I didn't know I liked horses so much. Horses are great! I think I like horses even more than ballet!”

“Do you now?” my mother said doubtfully. “You're not going to tell me you want to stop dancing?”

“No way! Mrs. Backyard's daughter stopped and now she's too fat to climb into the saddle. Maybe I can do ballet and ride horses! What do you think?”

“Maybe you can,” my mother smiled.

She picked up the milk pails and I followed her down to the kitchen. My mother stood in front of the stove, stirring the milk until it slowly began to pasteurize.

“It's actually a lot harder to ride a pony than a normal horse,” I continued, “because you have to ride her without a saddle.”

The milk started to bubble. The surface was covered with a thick, creamy skin.

“Her name is Nikina,” I said, peeling the skin away with a spoon. “I'm going to bring her here on Tuesday so you can have a look at her, okay? She's very beautiful. And I was thinking—”

“I know what you're thinking,” my mother said.

“I was thinking that when we finish construction, maybe we could have a pony of our own. They're very small, so a little pony wouldn't take up much space. Do you think? Now that Barry has gone, I mean?”

“Do you miss Barry?” my mother asked.

“I miss him very much,” I said sadly.

MY FATHER WAS IN THE LIVING ROOM with Mr. Poloraich, and they came into the kitchen to get some beer from the fridge. Mr. Poloraich had a habit of dropping by unexpectedly. If he arrived when my father was out looking for work, he would follow my mother around the house as she cleaned and washed and vacuumed. I was very impressed by Mr. Poloraich, as he had been a famous Czech spy and always brought exotic presents. There would be flowers for my mother, Swiss chocolate for my sister, and a packet of chewing gum for me. He also brought foreign cigarettes and scotch for my dad. I could tell when he had been to the house, because there would be a pack of Lucky Strikes downstairs where my father was allowed to smoke. My dad smoked two packs of cigarettes a day, but he saved the Lucky Strikes for special occasions. He would carry the pack around with him as he worked his way through vast quantities of cheap Sparta cigarettes, but at the end of the day, or after a particularly good meal, he would light a Lucky Strike with great satisfaction.

“Now, that's a real smoke!” he would sigh contentedly.

Mr. Poloraich had been visiting my father long before I was born, and there was a strong camaraderie between the two men. My dad even helped the former spy find a job at a time when he was having difficulty keeping one himself. When he returned from America in 1969, Mr. Poloraich found himself in similar conflict with the new regime, and it took him a while to find his feet. These days he was doing quite well, and he was one of the few people who came to visit my parents. His unexpected visits were slightly unnerving, however. My sister complained that he stared at her breasts, and my mother expressed her own reservations, pointing out that a lot of Mr. Poloraich's espionage stories involved him sleeping with the wives of his agents and contacts, and he often seemed to arrive on our doorstep the minute my father had left the house. This was one of the rare occasions when he and my dad were in the same room together, and as I hoped, Mr. Poloraich slipped his hand in his pocket.

“A special treat this time, eh?” he grinned. “Had to smuggle this across the border. Very dangerous.”

He handed me my very first Kinder Egg.

“Don't eat it all at once.” He winked.

I looked to see if my mother was watching, and could tell by the frown on her face that she was. According to Mrs. Saturday, I still needed to lose two kilos if I wanted to be accepted by the State Conservatory, and my mother had taken it upon herself to police my eating habits. I quickly unwrapped the Kinder Egg while Mr. Poloraich was in the room, knowing that she wouldn't reproach me in front of a guest. I was surprised to discover that there was a plastic toy inside it. I made a lot of fuss over the toy, hoping it would distract my mother from the chocolate eggshell, but she knew all my tricks.

“Dominika.” She smiled sweetly. “Would you care to share your chocolate with our guest?”

My shoulders slumped. “I guess so.”

“Oh, please, not for me.” Mr. Poloraich shook his head gallantly. “Much too old for candy these days.”

“What was that? Oh, no thanks,” my dad growled, a cigarette in his mouth and a bottle of Pilsner in his hands, but before I could follow him out of the room, my mother pounced.

“Well, I'd like a piece,” she said, smoothly intercepting me at the doorway and relieving me of the larger half of the egg. This was my mother's classic sacrifice. She wasn't a big eater of sweets. She was breaking her diet to save me from breaking mine.

“Did you say thank you to Mr. Poloraich?” she asked.

“Thank you, Mr. Poloraich,” I said glumly.

“And who was it telling me she didn't want to become too fat to ride horses?” she teased.

“Does that mean we're getting one?” I cried, offering my mother the rest of the Kinder Egg. “You can have my chocolate if we get one! If we get a pony, just a little pony, I'll never eat chocolate again, I swear!”

My mother looked at my father and shook her head in amusement.

“An interesting moral dilemma,” she observed.

 

 

THE FOLLOWING TUESDAY, I ran home from school and changed into my corduroy pants. I felt slightly ashamed of my corduroy pants, the same way I felt slightly ashamed of my mother's homemade ballet costumes. The pants were brown and very fuzzy around the knees, and the horse-loving girls looked so professional in their jeans. It was difficult enough having to compete with a whole group of girls; the fact that my clothes weren't right made things even harder. Still, I knew that I was good with animals. The other girls didn't know how to talk to Nikina, and she had treated them roughly in spite of their clothes. I was confident that I could make friends with Mrs. Backyard's horses. They didn't care if I was wearing jeans or not. They went by tone of voice, and I was very good at talking.

I went down to the kitchen to get some sugar cubes, only to discover that my mother was cleaning. She did this twice a year and was very meticulous about it. The sugar cubes were buried beneath a big pile of boxes, and I knew better than to disturb her system, so I collected my milk pails and went to Mrs. Backyard's farm, gathering fresh grass along the way from the neighboring lawns. I said hello to the dogs and Lisa the goat, and hurried over to the stables.

“Hello, Nikina!” I called out. “I've brought you some tasty grass! It's not as nice as sugar, but it's better for you. Nikina?”

The stable was silent.

All three horses were gone.

I ran around the farm in a panic, trying to find the missing horses, but already despairing because I knew what had happened. Nikina's halter was missing from its peg on the wall. Dana and her friends had come early.

I found Mrs. Backyard in the cow shed, hosing down an enormous cow.

“Mrs. Backyard! Mrs. Backyard!” I cried. “It's my turn to ride Nikina today, but she's gone! The stable is empty!”

Mrs. Backyard looked as weary as usual.

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked.

My eyes immediately filled with tears. “Because it's my turn.” I sobbed. “I don't have any free time except for Tuesdays, and I told my mother that I would bring Nikina over so she could see if we could have a pony of our own. Everyone knew that today was my day. I told everyone a hundred times!”

I bit my tongue to stop myself from crying.

“Come on, sweetie.” Mrs. Backyard patted me awkwardly on the shoulder. “It's just a pony. She'll be here next week.”

“It'll be too late!” I sniffed. “My mother will have lost interest by then!”

I walked out of the shed, feeling betrayed. I was so looking forward to walking the pony up our street, and now my afternoon was ruined. And to make matters worse, I still had a couple of hours to wait before Mrs. Backyard milked her cows. In the back of my mind, I could hear Dana Bukova laughing, and I resolved to never speak to her again. I walked up the path from the shed to the house and was greeted by Lisa the goat, who started sniffing my pockets.