Harlequin's Millions (13 page)

the Count's broken chairs, in a slow-motion bacchanal, dancing nymphs, now retired, but filled with the same glow as in the old days, when all that was beautiful and wild was granted only to beautiful youths, demigods and gods who disguised themselves as rain, so that beautiful, credulous mortals were impregnated by a spring shower. Then the moon came out, Dr. Holoubek lay in the hay and gazed up at the sky, the light from the moon was intensified by the pallid glow of the military garrison somewhere beyond the enormous oaks and mountains, the sky was tinted green and pink, it hummed and murmured with neon and electric light, in the courtyard the broken legs of the Count's chairs shone white, through the open windows of the dining hall Váša Příhoda kept playing his story of an unhappily happy love, and now it dawned on all the old women that the reason they had been powdering and perfuming themselves all week long and had their hair permed in the little town hadn't been for the sake of the dashing young Dr. Holoubek, but for this moment alone, when they realized that only one thing mattered in this world, and that was love, unhappy love, the kind that meant everything to every young woman, and they knew that this composer had lived through and set down his own love story, even though it had ended long ago, even though it had happened to him when he was still young, and that he had only been able to compose
this piece when he, too, was old, the memory of a love that was more than the love itself … somewhere in the distance this declaration rang out, that the memory of love is always stronger. The old women had grown more serious, more beautiful because of this violin concerto, which was still pouring from the open window, the mighty orchestra once again granted Váša Příhoda a few moments' rest and took the theme, and now the music seemed to emanate from the whole castle, from the cellar up through all the floors to the attic and beyond, the music shimmered all the way to the crowns of the old trees, to the heavens, where it suddenly stopped, and once again Váša Příhoda beseeched his listeners, and himself, with the burning expressivity of his violin, which went on articulating what Brahms considered the most beautiful thing in his world, the most essential, and that was the beautiful misery of unrequited love. And I saw those statues in the castle park, illuminated by the pallid light of our Chicago, I walked from one statue of a young woman to the next, I heard Váša Příhoda and suddenly I knew what I hadn't known before, that all these statues of young women were filled with wistful music, that these statues were drenched with the sorrow and bliss expressed by the violin, that these sandstone statues trembled with the happiness of a love that at the same time filled them with fear … And when the concerto ended, there was
silence. Dr. Holoubek's white coat glowed beside the old women lying on their backs in the meadow, the magic of the music slowly faded, the open window and broken white legs of the Count's chairs glowed like a reproach. Dr. Holoubek sat up, looked around and must have had a terrible fright, he stuck his fingers in his hair, got to his feet and zigzagged down the path to the retirement home, leaving behind a trail of wet footprints, the old women awoke as if from a deep sleep, they stood up and couldn't believe how happy they felt, one after the other they tiptoed into the corridor, they stood outside Dr. Holoubek's door, they plastered the whole door with their ears and listened closely, then they rapped their wet knuckles lightly against the door panel, but there was no sound from inside … The next day, while the carpenter was repairing and gluing the six broken legs of the Count's chairs, Dr. Holoubek again advised the nurses to go on playing “Harlequin's Millions,” and instead of classical music he ordered soothing drinks from the pharmacy to help the pensioners sleep, he no longer advised them to drink Russian vodka or Prostějov rye. And before they went to bed they found a variety of colorful drinks on the table in the corridor, brown and blue, green and red, yellow and purple, with bromide, without alcohol, next to each glass was the name of the pensioner and in the evening before bed every pensioner sipped his drink and dreamt
of how splendid it had been, that evening of classical music, but that night no one could sleep, all night long the white coats of the nurses flitted about with soothing injections, powders and suppositories, none of which had any effect, because all the pensioners had been so aroused by the violin concerto, played first by Georg Kulenkampff and then by our very own Váša Příhoda …

        T
HAT AFTERNOON WE HAD LOVELY WEATHER, FOUR
cardplayers carried their table out onto the gallery, they took turns playing, with every new game of Mariáš three would play and the fourth could hardly wait for the next game, they fanned out their cards and smiled blissfully, or frowned if they had a bad hand. When Headmaster Polman was about to play a card, I begged him … Please tell me, what is this wonderful game that leaves you in raptures one minute and miserable the next? And the headmaster, who had written a guide to the rules of Mariáš, fixed his eyes on me, his face was patterned with wrinkles but his blue eyes gleamed. He turned the cards facedown on the table and said … If you insist … This game of Mariáš, from the French
mariage
, got its name because of the so-called weddings and
marriages between sad kings and beautiful queens, a regular marriage is worth twenty points, their alliance is worth forty points if announced beforehand as a trump. The seemingly highest cards are the aces and tens, but the true charm of the game is that an ordinary seven, eight, nine or an insignificant knave can sometimes force the tens to follow suit, and then your partner can take a valuable ten with an ace, sometimes even with just a lonely little trump. How democratic it is, that marriage game between kings and queens! Simple, meaningless cards, thanks to their trumping power, can take not only queens, but also lure out aces. Is it not the height of democracy when a player announces, even before the game begins, that his final trick will be a seven! Does it not give you a feeling of self-importance when a Mariáš player announces two sevens during bidding, one of which will launch the winning seven! cried Headmaster Karel Polman, his friends stared at him, undoubtedly he had never said anything so beautiful to them about this game called marriage, “Harlequin's Millions” fell in garlands from the rediffusion boxes, which rested on consoles in the wall above the players, Headmaster Polman stretched his legs, closed his eyes and continued … The best part of the start of each new game is the mystery of the talon, the two cards lying facedown on the table, two cards that are reserved for the player who has chosen the trump suit, so that he
can offer them to the players who, depending on their card, think they can play a Betl or a Durch … What a glorious feeling it is to play a Betl! When a player proudly announces beforehand that he will win the next game by losing every trick, while the players who win one trick after another will ultimately lose the game! How thrilling it is when at the end of a Betl, the player who has chosen this contract is afraid his opponents might have something up their sleeves, a card that can force this player to win a trick and lose the game, what a terrible predicament, what an existential choice! Isn't it wonderful, dear lady, how a Durch can raise your spirits, as you triumphantly win one trick after another, all the way to the end, it's like a personality cult, a splendid feeling that you have nothing to do with your fellow players, only yourself, and your own cards, and you claim every single trick! Or what about a revoke? When a player thinks himself victorious, there is only the penultimate trick before total victory is his, but then there is that one small miscalculation, a twitch, disastrous, a card falls out of your hand, well, then you have a revoke, one tiny wrong move that may not seem as if it can alter the final victory, but already has, and every mistake, however small, is punished with complete and unconditional loss, and you have to pay all the players everything. My dear lady, we play the game of marriage with such fatal passion because we're widowers, we're satyrs
without nymphs, kings without queens, yet we celebrate each new game like a wedding, and once again we are the consorts to beauteous queens, we exchange mistresses like the Merovingian kings of old … The Queen of Diamonds, a queen who always inspires trust, a noble and majestic queen, but with a thirst for adventure, despite the childlike simplicity of her face! Or my dearest Queen of Hearts! A nostalgic queen capable of great emotion and great love, which is doomed to failure, a queen most receptive to love. And what can I say about the Queen of Spades, the queen who protects all that is beautiful about the past, a queen who moves constantly to and fro, often putting you in hazard's way! But I'm always frightened by the Queen of Clubs, who symbolizes doom and destruction, even though she is noble and highly intelligent, the Queen of Clubs is often the bearer of bad news, yet she overflows with creative energy! said Headmaster Polman, his fellow players were dumbstruck, they probably hadn't realized any more than I had that marriage was such a beautiful and fateful game of love. The headmaster turned over his cards again and chose trump … Thank you, I said, and walked back to my three friends, who were on the terrace, leaning on the railing and looking out at the little town, one of the witnesses to old times continued … That house down there belongs to the Fuks family, it was once the home of the barley merchant Vincenc
Šafránek, who couldn't read or write but still bought books for his young son, out of love and a sense of patriotic duty. And when his dear son died, Šafránek the barley merchant informed the books, with tears in his eyes, of the boy's death. Where is Mr. Vincenc Šafránek now? Mr. Karel Výborný asked sadly … Where is Mr. Marysko, barber and hairdresser, bandmaster, who always had a flair for the dramatic and immediately after the introduction of coal gas placed in his display case a splendid, larger-than-life wax bust of a woman with a magnificent hairdo, all around it he'd strewn leaves and flowers, and one evening for an even more dramatic effect Mr. Marysko arranged four Auer gas lamps around the wax bust, but the four lamps gave off so much heat that an hour later the nose and ears had slid off and the whole face had melted and sagged and was covered with the fallen hairdo … Where is that wax maiden? cried Mr. Výborný, the chronicler who as a boy had been brought to the little town where time stood still in a cart drawn by two pairs of butcher's dogs, just like the prince of Loučeň, whose coach was drawn by two braces of horses … Where oh where is the people's poet they called Štěpánek, who strolled through the little town playing a barrel organ, in the company of his young daughter Nanynka, and who lived somewhere in Rose Street and was no ordinary organ-grinder, because whenever anyone had a birthday or a name day he gave
them a sheet of white paper with a patriotic poem he had written himself? Where is that poet? He lies buried there, in Saint George Cemetery, said Otokar Rykr, chronicler and aged witness. Štěpánek's daughter Nanynka, he added, who was also a poet, was small and slight and wore a little hat she had made by hand. She would shyly approach the passersby and offer them a piece of paper with one of her father's poems, and in this way she could discreetly ask for compensation. Her charming figure had disappeared long ago behind the cemetery wall. But now for something more cheerful, do you see that road, that was the imperial road, in eighteen-hundred-and-eighty-one we saw our very first automobile there, it looked like a carriage without shafts and was en route from Berlin to Vienna. Sometimes horsemen competing in the long-distance race from Vienna to Berlin would also pass this way. The riders and their horses from both directions were always exhausted by the time they arrived here. The horses were given sparkling wine mixed with raw eggs to fortify them for the next trot. Yes, said Mr. Výborný, witness to old times, and pointed downward, that road led to a bridge, a bridge built on wooden stilts, where toll was collected, and the toll collector was Mr. Berman, who lived in the third house from the bridge, the house was owned by Mr. Hulík, the last town fisherman, a distant cousin of the fishermen's family, the family
Bolen. Mr. Hulík also ran an inn here, he walked with a limp, as a boy he was trying to escape from a neighbor's garden and caught his leg on a fence. My friends and I would gaze at him in admiration when he trudged through the water in tall boots catching fish, his wife, who was slightly smaller and sturdier, with a pair of sturdy glasses on her nose, always wore an apron with huge pockets, which were filled with roasted fish, so crispy and crunchy that she munched on them like candy, bones and all. And on the other side of the river, said Mr. Kořínek cheerfully, pointing, there was a swimming pool, which is gone too, it had different sections marked off with barrels on wooden poles, so they wouldn't float away. One half for men, the other for women. Each section had its own separate pool for nonswimmers. When you walked along the water to the swimming pool, the river smelled delicious and the water was clear. In a little booth outside the swimming pool sat Miss Vičovská, selling admission tickets. She was always dressed in pink, from head to toe, like an advertisement for cleanliness! A fluttering red-and-white flag above the entrance meant the pool was open, and below the flag, on a bench under the sign that said air 20° and water 15°, sat the life-guard, Mr. Kroupa, smoking a pipe and surveying the territory. He always wore a clean, neatly ironed linen suit with blue pinstripes. Sometimes he lay a sturdy pole across the railing with a beginning swimmer
clinging to the end of it, he slid the pole along the railing and the beginner swam. There were also women in the pool, absolutely, but you could only see their heads. When they came out of the water, you could see their bathing costumes too. These were mostly made of linen, the bloomers ended above the knee and the blouse had a sailor's collar. When they climbed out of the water, it poured from their swimsuits like water from a drainpipe. Where is that old Nymburk swimming pool? Asked the witness to old times Mr. Václav Kořínek sadly. And our chronicler Mr. Rykr added … And where are all those fine Austrian uniforms? The dragoons used to ride past early in the morning on their way to the parade ground, we couldn't take our eyes off that army in their tall helmets with the gleaming golden comb on top. How we envied the officers those glittering helmets! In the evening the soldiers livened up the main streets, they strolled along the pavement rattling their sabers until your ears rang … Down there, that's where they used to go walking, Mr. Rykr pointed and went on … Outside the apothecary shop was a display of colored prints of saints and nonsaints and a large number of headless dragoons on fiery steeds, brandishing their sabers against an invisible enemy. In the space where the heads should have been, soldiers would paste their own faces, which they'd cut out of photographs … Yes, that's how it was, added Mr. Kořínek the
chronicler … the first dragoons in our little town were the Uhlans. On Cavalry Street an arched bridge had been built out of bricks from the town walls to make it easier for them to ride to the Malý Val. There is mention in the town annals of a scuffle between two girls in Zálabí, who on the thirty-first of July eighteen-hundred-and-four fought over a Uhlan … said Mr. Kořínek. And Mr. Karel Výborný could no longer contain himself and added … In the house where we once lived, Miss Terinka Procházková, a tall, thin, gray old spinster, taught dressmaking. About twenty young girls took lessons from her. Miss Terinka never interested us, but her brother did, Mr. Antonín Procházka, who had been property master for several large theater companies. After he'd quit that job, he and his wife and a stack of crates and trunks had moved in with his sister Terinka. He was always eager and willing to show the contents of his crates and trunks to people he knew, and our eyes nearly popped out of our heads when we saw the weapons, folk costumes, masks and other treasures. And whenever the actors from various theater companies came to visit him, it was a great day for us boys. They'd go boating, and when they called out to each other, things like: Madame Procházková! and Seevoo-play, Madame Pulda!, we always thought it was very posh, where we came from you never heard things like that, although the women did call each other all sorts of
names … said Mr. Výborný, roaring with laughter, and then he looked down at the river, and saw there what he had just been telling me about, I even had the impression he had been reading it off the river's surface and the house where he'd lived as a boy. “Harlequin's Millions” softly spun its string serenade around the old wooden handrail of the balustrade, where our wrinkled hands rested fitfully, we looked down at the streets and the square of the little town, at the river, into the room where the barley merchant Vincenc Å afránek had just told his son's books, with tears in his eyes, of the boy's death, we saw the Auer lamps giving off such heat in the evening that the hairdresser's dummy slowly melted away, the wax nose rolled silently down and the ears slid off, for a moment the whole face seemed to hesitate and then came tumbling down, it oozed through the leaves and flowers in the shopwindow, Nanynka walked through the town square modestly offering her poems, racehorses and their riders trotted along the imperial road to the little town, in the square we saw the grooms feeding the exhausted horses from buckets into which they had emptied whole bottles of sparkling wine, plump Mrs. Hulíková strutted along the river with her sturdy glasses on her nose handing out fistfuls of crisp-roasted fish from the pockets of her apron, next to the old swimming pool sat Mr. Kroupa with his pipe, dressed in his clean, ironed linen suit with the
blue pinstripes, rising from the river were women with Art Nouveau hairstyles, in linen bathing costumes with bloomers and a floppy sailor's collar and along the river the Uhlans came trotting with their tall helmets and golden combs, on a stand outside the pharmacy were colored prints of headless dragoons on fiery steeds, the property master Mr. Procházka opened his suitcases and crates and showed us boys all those weapons, costumes and masks … The witness and chronicler of old times Mr. Karel Výborný seemed to sense what we were looking at, and added … It was only later that Mr. Procházka rented the wooden restaurant on Ostrov, he did a bit of rebuilding so he could stay there all year round, and because he lived on the island permanently he was nicknamed Robinson, to distinguish him from the other Procházkas in the little town. Did you know, the place where the wooden restaurant once stood was originally called the Poplar, also known as the Firing Range, or as the old people called it, Shoot'em Dead, since that was where the rifle club's shooting range used to be. There was even a special room in the restaurant where the walls were covered from floor to ceiling, like wallpaper, with square wooden targets, all pretty much shot to pieces, they'd been painted with animals, birds, and copies of illustrations from the pages of the