Harlequin's Millions (11 page)

have no reason to boast about it, not with words, let alone with their eyes. In that sense these people are further than I am, all I do is disturb them in their quiet and gradual dying. At that moment the drainpipe broke loose again and, still hanging from a single hook, slid down crosswise along the façade of the castle, hit the ground with a mighty clang and lay against the wall like a mourning band, the pensioners who were walking in the courtyard stopped, turned, then stood motionlessly, because in falling the drainpipe had dragged down one of the rediffusion boxes, console and all, it lay there under the drainpipe and went on playing “Harlequin's Millions,” softly and sweetly … And the sound of that music made me melancholy, took me back to the womb of time, to the day we moved from the renowned brewery to the villa on the river. Francin sat in his chair, next to him lay the dog Bora and next to her the old tomcat Celestýn, all of them too scared to go anywhere, the dog and cat were impossible, it didn't take much to upset them, all I had to do was start my spring cleaning, all I had to do was turn the chairs upside down on the table and those two creatures would start getting restless, so when I hinted that we were going to be moving, that cat and dog instantly got hay fever, they sneezed and coughed and looked at me as if we were going to leave them behind, Francin too, once every four years when I began painting the house, he wouldn't
come home, nor would the cat, the dog lay in her doghouse, trembling so hard the whole doghouse shook … And when we had really begun moving, the workers came with their girths and slings and carted off sideboards and cabinets, big tables, then boxes and crates, which they carried in their warm hands, filled with all sorts of household knickknacks, everyone found this very unnerving, I'd made up my mind to dispose of all those knickknacks during the move, but now it was as if I were getting rid of everything in case I died, just as I'd done and had to do when my mother died. And Francin sat there, staring out the window at the malt house, at his beloved brewery, at the tall chimney oozing smoke, like saliva oozing from the mouth of a person in an epileptic fit, the old dog and cat sat next to him and they huddled together, gave each other support, because the two animals had never experienced anything like this before, now they really knew that their days at the brewery were over, each time I walked past Francin, Bora and Celestýn, I stroked them and tried to reassure them … Don't be afraid! And so we transported piece after piece, room after room, Francin and the animals sat there for two days straight and watched the objects marching past, furniture they were fond of, cabinets and armchairs and salon tables that evoked the golden times, which would never return, we felt like the farmers whose horses and cows were taken
from their stables during the collectivization, until there was nothing left but empty space where your footsteps, amplified by the emptiness, rang out like church bells, I saw the brewery workers coming to gape at me, their wives and children too, they came from far and wide to witness our humiliation, people came from the little town, people who used to visit us now came to witness the end of what had always seemed like it would last until we retired, now one piece of furniture after another was loaded onto the trucks, I saw all those people who had wished this fate on us now roaring with laughter, pushing their way through the empty corridor, sitting down on the gently sloping tin roof, there they sat, the whole roof was full of them, jeering, if they couldn't find a place to sit they went and sat on the edge of the roof, their legs dangling over the gutter, laughing their heads off, those who couldn't see climbed up the cramps of the brewery chimney to get a better view, and there were so many people standing around one of the empty trucks, it was like a tidal wave. And then came the moment when I led Francin outside, I seated him in an armchair in the truck, then I brought out old Bora, she tried to jump into the truck by herself, but her hind legs were too weak, I had to help her, and then I went back and there in the empty house lay the old tomcat Celestýn, I lifted him up like a wet towel, he was lathered in sweat, he snuggled up against
me, his heart pounded so hard it was like holding a steam engine, and so, with the tomcat in my arms, my head held high, legs astride, I stood there in the back of the truck and off we drove through the crowd of people, past hundreds of laughing and inquisitive eyes, I saw that everyone had wished this on me, for years to come this would be the most wonderful sight they'd ever seen. And as we rounded the bend I fell down on one knee, I took one last look back and saw our whole life at the brewery so clearly before me, in a few minutes I plunged through a quarter of a century, as if I were drowning, or the way people have visions when they're about to die. And the rediffusion system went on quietly crocheting that same lace doily, “Harlequin's Millions,” the witness to old times Mr. Kořínek looked at me and when he saw that these images were running through my mind, he gently touched the back of my hand and painted with words exactly what he saw deep in the womb of time, in the distant past … It was Christmas Eve and there was a frost … The errand boy from the roundhouse had come by several times to say that Fiala, a stoker, hadn't shown up at work … Fiala's wife, an Italian beauty with a six-year-old daughter, said he wasn't home, she didn't know where he was … Meanwhile that afternoon a resident of Stratov was walking past a grove of pines … when he thought he noticed someone … lying under a tree … He saw an older
man lying in a pool of blood … He ran to get help … When others arrived on the scene, they determined that the man's wrists and throat had been slit. His blood had stopped flowing and was clotted around the wounds … and his body was stiff … Beside him lay a razor and a sheet of paper … I leave this life of my own free will, I can't bear it any longer … He wrote about the poor condition of the locomotives … the lousy coal … he rode along as a stoker, was always exhausted … In those days on a sixty-mile haul you had to bank the fire at least four times … and he didn't have a moment's peace at home either … His wife couldn't get used to her surroundings, and blamed him for things he could do nothing about … The mayor and a gendarme had the suicide victim loaded onto a cart and taken to the mortuary in Kostomlaty … They sent a telegram to the roundhouse saying that Fiala the stoker was dead … At about four o'clock that afternoon Dr. Gruntorád arrived in Kostomlaty in his horse-drawn carriage to see a patient … he received a message to come have a look at a body in the mortuary … After a thorough examination Dr. Gruntorád determined … that the suicide victim was still alive … He treated his wounds and had him transferred to the hospital … It was Christmas Eve … You must realize, Madame, that in the old days a stoker had to be familiar with all sorts of coal. Locomotives for passenger trains, Siegl locomotives,
had slanted grates, which gave a good draft in the stokehold. Besides lignite they also burned bituminous coal. Some passenger trains used only bituminous coal, but from different mines, for instance you had Silesian coal from Waldenburg, which couldn't stand up to a poker, it sintered, especially when the fire was blazing. Then you had coal from Neurode, which formed little heaps that could be stoked up while the train was moving. And then there was coal from Gottesberg and Bohemian coal from Kladno and Moravian coal from Rosice, and in rare cases, as in Děčín, you even had Cardiff coal from Wales …

        “H
ARLEQUIN
'
S
M
ILLIONS
”
BECAME THE RETIREMENT
home theme song, perhaps because the doctor in residence, an old man himself, nearly eighty, was also passionate about the golden days, he adored “Harlequin's Millions,” the tune was like therapy for him, sometimes when he was examining pensioners in his office, he drifted away, stopped the examination, once when he had placed that instrument for listening to my heart against my back, he drifted away on the sugary tones of “Harlequin's Millions,” then suddenly said, after putting the rubber tubes in his ears … Hello, this is Dr. Secký, who's this? The doctor had not only been retired for some time now, it was said that he suffered from as many illnesses as the whole retirement home put together, so once a year, when he didn't know what else to do with
himself, he went to a spa. On those occasions he was relieved by young Dr. Holoubek, who had curly hair and looked like Alexander the Great, so most of the old women were in love with him, you could tell, they put on their best dresses, every day they looked forward to being lucky enough to run into the young doctor, which was why they went to the little town to get their hair done, colored their cheeks with rouge and did their best to look artistic when sitting on the benches and armchairs, even those who had trouble walking felt, in Dr. Holoubek's presence, compelled to walk as if there was nothing the matter with them. Dr. Holoubek won over the men by never asking about their illness, but about how much they smoked and how much they drank. And when a smoker told him truthfully that he smoked twenty cigarettes a day, the doctor replied enthusiastically that he himself smoked thirty, but that it would be wise if the pensioner tried to cut down to fifteen … And then the pensioner left his office feeling better than ever, went on smoking to his heart's content and was glad Dr. Holoubek was such a fine physician. But his biggest fans were the drinkers. Whenever a drinker entered his office, the doctor knew right away what sort of man he was and said, before the fellow could utter a word … So, you drink six pints a day! And the pensioner would say he drank seven. That will never do, Dr. Holoubek exclaimed, I want you to cut back to
five pints a day, followed by two large shots of hard liquor, preferably Russian vodka, but if you're low on funds, try Czech vodka from Haná, though personally I'd recommend Prostějov rye, I myself drink a pint a day, but best of all, advised Dr. Holoubek, is a sour pickle dipped in rum, every morning, instead of breakfast. And he told everyone that the whole question of sickness or health was predetermined by genes, how many years a person would live was decided right there in his mother's body, and smoking and drinking had no influence on this whatsoever, because a man who is genetically programmed to die at the age of forty will die at the age of forty, even if he doesn't drink or smoke, while another man could smoke and drink as much as his budget would allow and still live to be seventy-eight. Old Dr. Secký smoked so much that no one ever saw him without a lit cigarette, even when he was writing out prescriptions, he was always smoking, his cigarette dangled from the right-hand corner of his mouth, so that his glasses, the right lens, had become completely brown from the smoke, the old doctor didn't even have a cigarette case, he kept his cigarettes in his briefcase, it was his own private tobacco shop, people said he was so fond of smoking that he set his alarm clock for four in the morning so he could light a cigarette, and from that moment on he smoked one after another, he never coughed and was nearly eighty but alive and
kicking, he had his hair died chestnut, and in his office he always had two cigarettes, one between his fingers and one burning on the nickel-plated display case where he kept his medicines. And so while the old doctor was taking the waters at Marienbad, Dr. Holoubek was giving moral support to all the inmates of the retirement home, and immediately you saw the men walking around looking more cheerful, they bought hip flasks and started each day with a large swig of Prostějov rye, the whole castle smelled of that rye from Prostějov, a pleasant fennel scent, and the women rubbed their cheeks early each morning with
crème royal
, powdered themselves, sprinkled themselves with perfume, even wore scented nightclothes, so that all the corridors smelled even more strongly of perfume and makeup, the whole castle smelled like a dressing room in a theater, and all the pensioners looked forward to the possibility that they might be lucky enough to run into Dr. Holoubek, that he would return their greetings gratefully, give them a courteous bow, because the old doctor, even though he smoked, could never stand it when one of the pensioners smoked in the castle corridors, and even though the old doctor himself drank, he would start yelling if a pensioner smelled of beer or gin, threatening to send the pensioner straight back to wherever he'd come from, back home as punishment … And Dr. Holoubek had another passion, he loved classical
music, he was so crazy about it that he simply had to talk about it all the time, because he wanted to share that beauty with the rest of the world. One afternoon he invited all classical music buffs to come to the dining hall, he had brought along a phonograph and spoke in a voice filled with emotion … Friends, today I'd like to transport you all to the realm of sound, allow me to play you a recording of Claudio Arrau performing Liszt's
Liebeslied
 … while I read to you from the work of the poet Freiligrath … and he placed the needle on the record and Claudio Arrau began playing the love song, a nostalgic melody, each finger pressing the keys with great emphasis, Dr. Holoubek read aloud, in a soft voice … O love, as long as love you can, O love, as long as love you may, The time will come, the time will come, When you will stand at the grave and mourn … And most of the old women were so moved that they began humming this song of love, softly, and then their gentle humming, their choral lament, grew louder and stronger, and I too was deeply moved, because like me probably most of the old women had specified in their last will and testament that this Song of Love be their last song, the song that would be played as their coffin was being lowered into the grave or slid slowly into the cremation oven … Now, under the fingers of Claudio Arrau, the piano thundered through the Count's former banquet hall and the old women and a few of the men
hummed along with the love song as if it were a chorale, suddenly that last song was a High Mass, a song whose words were now replaced by a waterfall of notes, sparkling piano tones that rang out like a spring hailstorm against a tin roof and then returned to that hymnlike melody … Dr. Holoubek read out the final lines of the poet who had inspired Liszt … And guard your words with care, lest harm flow from your lips, but the loved one recoils and mourns … Mr. Otokar Rykr said to me in a low voice … In Palacký Avenue the butcher Antonín Huněk could be seen flaunting his belly and Roman nose in his shop at number one hundred fifteen, equally big-bellied was his counterpart at number fifty-one, the baker Antonín Štolba, whom you would often see, covered with flour, smoking a cigarette in the doorway of his bakery. Before Štolba the house had been occupied by the furniture maker and sexton Vambera. His pride and joy was a starling he had trained to pull a glass of water into his cage with a little winch. And in that same Palacký Avenue, above the entrance to the shop belonging to Tusar, Votava-Paljas's son-in-law, were two half-wreaths decorated with wooden lemons and bay leaves. In the window were glass jars of pickled cucumbers, crystallized fruit, quite expensive in those days, Saint John's bread, yellow gummies shaped like various figures, sugared pretzels, pink and white candies that tasted like soap, chocolate wafers
and licorice root. At the entrance to the shop stood a herring barrel, on the counter was a vat of Russian sardines, better known as Russians 'n Onions … Dr. Holoubek was now holding up another record, and said … If I may, I'd like to play you a particular excerpt from a symphonic poem for orchestra, written by Zdeněk Fibich, you'll hear the Czech Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by none other than Václav Neumann, the work is called
At Twilight
, it is an immortal love song that stirs the hearts of all who hear it and is best known simply as
Poem
. And the pensioners' eyes filled with tears, they were restless with excitement, the doctor placed the needle on the record, but the Philharmonic was still playing that part of the piece in which the young Fibich is climbing the stairs to the home of the Schulz family, the doctor lifted the needle and moved it to a different spot on the record and then sat down in the Count's armchair, after several chords the Czech Philharmonic fell silent and when the opening notes of the love song were heard, the old women began humming along with the orchestra, Mr. Neumann the conductor undoubtedly imagined himself as the young Fibich, with his declaration of love to young Miss Shulzová, the old women and men couldn't restrain themselves and accompanied his
Poem
with their heartfelt humming, because nearly all of them had stated in their will that they wanted this love song played at their
funeral, either a recording or on the harmonium, the witness to old times Mr. Karel Výborný told me in a soft voice … Another curious figure in our little town was Pepík Přikryl, nicknamed the walking delicatessen, after finishing high school he trained as a waiter but only occasionally practiced this profession because he was able to make a living with his own little business, which he plied every night in the pubs. He was short and fat, he sported a voluminous belly upon which rested a large basket that was fastened around his neck with a strap. In the basket were sardines in oil, anchovies, onions, Russian sardines, pickled cauliflower, spicy gherkins and other thirst-inducing delicacies … Now the symphonic poem
At Twilight
was coming to an end, and just for a moment all the old women including myself were Anežka Schulzová, who had the honor of being loved by the young composer Zdeněk Fibich … The witness to old times Václav Kořínek was inspired, and said, in a scholarly fashion … On the night of Monday to Tuesday, on the twenty-sixth of August eighteen-hundred-and-ninety, the people of the little town where time stood still were rudely awakened by the loud shouting and offensive behavior of the officers of the dragoon regiment, which was taking its leave from the little town because it was being transferred to Vienna. The officers were having a party and their shouts mingled with the barking and howling of dogs and the
growling of bears as they bid farewell to the townspeople. On the third of July, eighteen-hundred-and-ninety-three, the town council and the local public prosecutor were investigating the affair of the Austrian cavalry officer Count Schönborn, who was suspected of shooting at three people outside in the square after midnight from the third floor of Dr. Gruntorád's house, because they were standing under the window of a home where a piano was being played, making a racket and throwing stones at the window. After the investigation the officer handed back the sentence, which had been written in Czech, saying he didn't understand a word of it. Said Václav Kořínek quietly, and Dr. Holoubek placed another record on the turntable and lifted the tone arm, put in a new needle and said, in a voice trembling with emotion … In just a few moments Herbert von Karajan and his orchestra will play for you
The Afternoon of a Faun
, a faun is paralyzed by his love for a nymph, his body is stained with the juices of love, he lies by the sea, on the inside of his closed eyelids he projects the blissful moment of love he has just experienced, he lies there in the light of the sun, then sits up and plays a melancholy song of longing on his syrinx, a song about a rite of passage, about his first love, the surf and sunlight are filled with the whinnying, the tender caresses and the weariness that remained after the beautiful nymph was gone, he is surrounded by the
elements, by sun and sea, air and earth … Mr. Václav Kořínek takes advantage of this moment to explain, in a low voice … On the night of August ninth eighteen-hundred-and-eighty-seven, Lieutenant Korb from Vienna fired his revolver out the window of his house on the square at František Jirák, who together with several of the townspeople had been outraged by a baron's cruel abuse of his butler, shouting … A baron would never do that! But Jirák remained unharmed, because the bullet ricocheted off the front wall of Hotel Na Knížecí three feet above his head and buried itself in the cobblestones in the square. The cartridge was found by the worker Kroupa, who sent it to the governor and filed a complaint … And the symphony orchestra conducted by Herbert von Karajan began playing
The Afternoon of a Faun
, and truly, that symphonic poem was filled with melancholy melodies of love, Dr. Holoubek held his face in his hands and experienced the lover's lament as if he himself were the faun, his curly hair tumbled over his fingers, the old women gazed with great compassion at that noble head, their eyes glistened and gleamed with tears, perhaps they realized for the first time that they themselves could have been such a nymph, perhaps for the first time in their lives they were pining for their lost youth, for the days when they themselves were still sensual young women and would have gladly allowed Dr. Holoubek to make the kind of love to
them that they heard in the melancholy, pagan song that the faun was playing on his syrinx. I too was aroused, with my whole body I could feel the sweet misery of the faun, who probably wasn't so young anymore either, it even occurred to me that Claude Debussy, when he wrote that piece, might have been thinking of himself, an older man, who no longer had such bizarre notions about happiness, this nymph would be the last woman to whom he'd ever make love, for he had lost all hope that he'd ever be loved as he'd been loved by the nymph who had left him, and hence his lament … I watched the old women and saw that the music seemed to be saying something about them too, somewhere in the depths of time they too had been loved, they too had experienced one last night of love, I saw that this