The Twelve Little Cakes (42 page)

I let out a squeal of delight and shook her hand vigorously.

“Thank you, Comrade Paskova! Thank you!” I exclaimed.

“It's only a little role,” Mrs. Paskova smiled, pausing at the foot of the stairs. “But it's a start. All the great dancers carried spears when they were young. It's part of the tradition. Oh, and do say hello to Vendula for me the next time you see her. Her father is a great surgeon. He saved my life, as it happens.”

 

 

THE NEXT DAY in class, I squirmed triumphantly on my seat, wanting to tell everybody about my role in
Rigoletto.
Mrs. German sat on the corner of her desk, dictating an article about Comrade Yuri Gagarin, the first man brave enough to orbit the Earth in a Soviet-made space-ship. She carefully enunciated the difficult words like “cosmonaut” and “atmosphere,” repeating each sentence three times while we wrote it down in our notebooks. Her son, Eugene, was as quick at transcription as I was. Between sentences, he would stare out the window, biting the end of his pencil and humming to himself. He had sandy blond hair, and I thought he was even more handsome than Mr. Slavicky from
Swan Lake.
I pretended that I wasn't looking at him, but I secretly was. After half an hour, I finally nudged him with my elbow.

“What do you wants?” he whispered.

Eugene's accent was even thicker than his mother's. The troublemaking boys at the back of the class mimicked it, yelling “Fucks you!” at each other during the snack breaks.

“Would you hold your thumbs for me tonight?” I asked him. “I'm going to dance in
Rigoletto
at the Smetana Theater, which is very exciting, but I'm also a bit scared, too, you know?”

“Okay,” Eugene whispered back, hiding behind his notebook. “What time do you wants me to holds them for you?”

“Eugene!” Mrs. German slapped the blackboard with the palm of her hand. “Is that you I hear whispering?”

“It wasn't me, Mum.” Eugene looked up with a innocent expression.

“What do you mean, it wasn't you? I knows it was you!” Mrs. German's accent grew thicker as her voice rose in volume. “Put that notebook down! And off you goes behind the door!”

Eugene's face turned red. He climbed to his feet and the whole class roared with laughter. He looked at me bitterly and clenched his fists.

“It's not his fault,” I blurted. “It's my fault, Comrade German! I asked Eugene to hold his thumbs for me and he did. See, look—” I pointed to her son's clenched fists.

“And just why were you asking him to holds his thumbs?” Mrs. German demanded.

“Because I have a role in
Rigoletto
and I'm going to dance in the Smetana Theater tonight,” I explained. “And I need someone to hold their thumbs for me. I'm very sorry. I was trying not to ask, but I couldn't help it. It's the first role I've ever got!”

“You're dancing at the Smetana Theater tonight?” Mrs. German was very impressed. “How absolutely wonderful! I'm sure the whole class will holds their thumbs for you if you ask them. Shall we holds our thumbs for Dominika, class?”

The class groaned and made a sullen display of holding their thumbs.

“Very well!” Mrs. German said approvingly. “I've always wanted to goes to the Smetana Theater. It's supposed to be one of the nicest theaters in Europe, but it's practically impossible to get tickets to it these days. You need to have very good connections. I hears the shows are sold out three years in advance!”

“Do I still have to goes behind the door?” Eugene asked.

“I'll lets you off this time,” Mrs. German said sternly. “But if I catches you again, you can stay behind after class!”

Eugene glared at me as he returned to his seat.

“I'm sorry,” I whispered, trying hard not to smile.

 

 

AT SIX O'CLOCK that evening, my mother and I stood next to the big pile of sand inside our front gate and waited for my father to return from town.

I was dressed in my best clothes, and my mother was wearing high boots, a leather coat, and a black cowboy hat. I had butterflies in my stomach and my mother was tense. Not only was Dad late but my sister had made a scene during dinner, refusing to come to
Rigoletto
on the grounds that she had to write a letter to an Italian man she had met during her summer holiday in Hungary. Klara had gone to Budapest on a youth exchange program, and had met a handsome young man at the famous Vidampark. She assumed he was Hungarian, while he thought she was an American actress or model, and they had somehow struck up a conversation in English, which Klara had studied along with Russian in high school. The young man's name was Renzo, and he was an engineering student in Florence. After a romantic afternoon at the amusement park, he had followed her around Budapest for the rest of her vacation, begging for her address until she finally gave it to him. After that, his letters regularly appeared in our mailbox and Klara became very interested in Italy. These days, her standard way of getting out of doing something was to say that she had to write a letter to Renzo. It was an inspired excuse, because if my parents refused to let her, she could (and would) accuse them of trying to break her heart. She would burst into tears and lock herself in her room, and after the usual shouting and banging, my parents would eventually leave her alone. I was sad my sister was going to miss my first performance, but I was secretly excited about her Italian romance, so I told my mother that I really didn't mind.

The sky turned dark as we waited. It was now half past six and my mother's face was very grim beneath her hat. Finally, the yellow Skoda roared up the hill. My dad threw the gears into reverse, but midway through his three-point turn, his engine cut out.

“Jezis Marja!”
my father exploded. “Stupid piece-of-shit car! Sorry girls,” he growled apologetically, “I'm going to have to ask you for a push.”

This was another one of our routines. We put our hands against the trunk and pushed the Skoda through my father's three-point turn. The car started to roll down the hill and we ran behind it, faster and faster until the exhaust pipe spewed a cloud of smoke in our faces. The engine shuddered to life and we scrambled inside, brushing soot off our clothes and scraping mud off our boots. When we finally arrived at the theater, Mrs. Paskova was in the lobby, anxiously checking her wristwatch. It was five past seven. My father led the charge through the big revolving door, pushing so hard that my mother and I were spun around twice.

“You must be the parents of this charming little girl,” Mrs. Paskova smiled, presenting my dad with two
Rigoletto
tickets.

“Sorry we're late,” my father said gruffly. The whole way into Prague, my mother had fulfilled her part of the routine by screaming even louder than his Skoda's noisy engine.

“Really, it's not a problem. I hope you enjoy the show,” Mrs. Paskova replied. “Your seats are upstairs, third balcony on the left, and be sure to watch out for your daughter in scene five.”

She took my hand and led me down the passage that connected the Federal Parliament building with the ancient Smetana Theater and into a labyrinth of dimly lit corridors. In one of the dressing rooms, I glimpsed a group of medieval knights sitting around a small television set, puffing away on their cigarettes while a lady dressed as a queen idly flipped through the pages of a magazine. Men in overalls pushed huge props around on wheels, and the floor was a complex network of rails. The Egyptian pyramid from last week's
Aida
had been wheeled aside to make way for a huge cathedral that was going out onstage. Mrs. Paskova steered me into a room that was crowded with women wearing big Italian wigs. “Fifteen minutes,” a speaker crackled overhead. Talcum powder flew in the air as the wardrobe assistants bustled around their ironing boards. In the distance, I could hear the orchestra tuning up.

“Take your clothes off,” Mrs. Paskova said as a woman wheeled in a rack of junior costumes.

“What's your size?” the wardrobe lady asked.

“I don't know,” I replied. My size was so small I wasn't even sure if it had a name or number. Whenever we went shopping, my mother always bought the smallest size in stock, and even then she would usually have to alter my clothes at home.

The wardrobe lady rattled the hangers. “This is the smallest I have,” she said, handing me a black velvet jacket with beautiful sleeves and a lovely starched collar. I put it on and buttoned it up, desperately trying to make myself look taller. I craned my neck and stood on the very tips of my toes, but the costume was still several sizes too big.

“Hmm. That's not going to work,” Mrs. Paskova said. “You really don't have anything smaller?”

I looked pleadingly at the wardrobe lady, until she sighed and disappeared into a nearby storage room. I listened hopefully to the clattering of hangers, but the woman returned empty-handed.

“I'm afraid not,” she told Mrs. Paskova. “That's definitely the smallest jacket we have. You're going to have to find yourself another girl.”

She collected my costume and went back to her ironing board as though nothing had happened. It took me a moment to realize that I had just lost the role. I started to sob uncontrollably.

Mrs. Paskova took my hand and whisked me from the room.

“Now, don't you worry,” she said, leading me back toward the Parliament lobby. “I'm sure we can find something else for you. How about one of the little hedgehogs from Janáček's
Smart Fox
? The costumes are simple and I'm sure they'll fit you.” She gave my shoulder an encouraging squeeze. “Besides, the candleholder is quite heavy and you would have had a hard time carrying it across the stage.”

I blew my nose into a handkerchief. “No, I wouldn't,” I sniffed. “I can carry twelve liters of milk across the hill!”

Mrs. Paskova took me to the cafeteria and bought me a lemonade to calm me down. She ruffled my hair affectionately and wrote the rehearsal details for
The Smart Fox
on the back of a napkin. Then she rushed back to the Smetana Theater, looking for a taller girl to fill my position.

I sat in the cafeteria and waited for my parents. The overture from
Rigoletto
started up in the distance, and a tired-looking waitress wiped her counter with a sponge. In a nearby booth, a group of old firemen were playing
mariash,
the Czech version of penny poker. I looked at the piles of change in front of them and wished that I had thirty
halir
s to buy myself half a slice of bread with mustard. This was not only the cheapest meal in the cafeteria but one of the few a dancer could eat on the premises without being yelled at.

“I'll see your twenty,” an old firemen wheezed, pushing some coins out on the table, “and raise you fifty!”

“I'll see your fifty and raise you a crown!”

Two hours later, after the sound of applause finally died inside the theater, my parents walked out into the crowded foyer. I ran over and met them with the bravest face I could manage.

“You were wonderful!” my dad exclaimed. “I nearly cheered out loud when you walked across that stage!”

“It wasn't me,” I said, biting my lip. “I was too small. They said I was too small for the costume.”

My mother and father exchanged looks. Before I knew it, my dad had swept me up in his big miner's arms.

“Just as well,” he growled. “The girl who did carry the candleholder was awful. She walked like a chicken.” He gave me a conspiratorial wink. “It's not the costume that's too big. It's the role that's too small.”

“But guess what?” I sniffed, holding up the napkin. “Mrs. Paskova said that I can play a hedgehog in
The Smart Fox.
”

“A hedgehog? Well, now we're talking!” My father balanced me on his hip and pulled out his wallet. “That sounds like a serious role for a serious actress! What do you think, Honza? I think this calls for a celebration!”

He carried me back to the cafeteria and plonked me down on the counter.

“What can I get you?” he asked.

“Half a slice of bread with mustard,” I said happily.

 

 

THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I came in to class at the last minute and hid behind a wall of books I piled up on my bench. Eugene sat next to me in silence. He was obviously curious but too shy to speak. Dana Bukova and her horse-loving friends were watching me with interest, and seemed to have picked up on the fact that I hadn't said a word about my theatrical debut. Unfortunately, I didn't escape Mrs. German's attention.

“The reviews were good!” she told the class. “I read them this morning. So how was your scene, Dominika? Were you scared?” She deposited our marked-up Yuri Gagarin transcriptions on the top of her desk and smiled at me expectantly.

I peeked up from behind my wall of books.

“To tell you the truth, Comrade German,” I said, “I didn't get to dance in
Rigoletto
last night, because . . . because I was given a new role at the last minute!” I held my chin up with some difficulty. “My new role is actually much better than the old one! I'm going to play a hedgehog in
The Smart Fox
!”

“A hedgehog?” Dana Bukova snorted. “What a pity they didn't let you play a goat!”

The class roared with laughter, with the puzzled exception of Eugene and his mother.

“Silence!” Mrs. German snapped. “There are no goats in
The Smart Fox
! Only animals from the forest.”

She studied the class, and then walked back to her desk and retrieved our transcriptions.