Harlequin's Millions (3 page)

with my head held high, I had to walk that way, because if I leaned forward even slightly, my head would drop and my teeth would fall out. I felt this, and burst into tears, because I realized I was doomed to be an old woman, from this moment on I'd be an old hag, a toothless old crone, because I couldn't bear having a thing like this in my mouth, even if I were to take all my savings out of the bank and spend six months drinking champagne and beer, even then, and that's how well I knew myself, I wouldn't be able to endure those teeth, my whole body, my soul, everything was telling me those dentures were unwelcome, I couldn't help feeling that I'd been tricked, that they had stuck a blacksmith's anvil in my mouth, a big glass ashtray full of cigarette butts and burnt matches, two sharp river shells, on which I'd already cut my tongue, which was completely terrified and wriggling all around that strange thing in my mouth, I couldn't keep that tongue still, it wasn't curious, it was deranged, that finicky tongue of mine had gone crazy, it bled and could very easily have destroyed itself, just as hunters claim that if a weasel gets caught in a trap, it'll be dead before sunset, even if it hasn't been wounded. And when I arrived home I got the old tool kit out of the Å koda 430, grabbed the metal lever for prying tires off the rim of the wheel, spit the teeth out onto the table, looked aghast at those choppers, which were laughing at me, the gums had fallen open
in a wide grin, and with a few blows of the tire iron I smashed those very expensive teeth, the porcelain shattered like a beer bottle, I hammered away at those teeth as if I were the one who'd gone crazy and I kept on hammering until the pink gums had turned to dust and teeth were flying around the kitchen. I swept together the remains and threw them in the stove … At Easter, when I was doing my spring cleaning and moved the table with the washbasin away from the wall, I'd found a few more teeth still lying there … Now I stood in front of the sandstone statue of a naked young woman, every half hour military planes took off from somewhere behind the hill, they rose straight up above the castle with a great roaring and whistling, sometimes a whole squadron, one plane after another, the sound of the engines and wings was like the groaning and wailing at the scene of a natural disaster. I stood and gazed at the calm, radiant face of that woman, wrapped in a mist of love and longing and hope and the assumption of love, her profile was silhouetted against the sky, the sun glided behind an enormous oak, in the blue sky above the statue's ringleted head a stripe gleamed, somewhere high in the sky, ten kilometers up, an airplane drew its shining trail, it left behind a neon stripe, like the hand of a glazier drawing a diamond across glass, leaving a fragile stripe that, with a light tap, was enough to break the glass in two, the ascending plane disappeared
briefly behind the sandstone head, then reemerged near the eye of the stone beauty, it went through her head like a pin through a Jugendstil hat … I walked back, I looked down at my rhythmically moving shoes, shuffling along the sandy path, I walked with my head bent, past the statues of the next few months, but I didn't look up, I knew that they would wait for me here and that I still had many days ahead, days in which I would find the strength to look at everything the Baroque sculptors had carved out of sandstone for Count Špork, and for me … When I stepped over the trampled wire fence, like a thief in the night, on my way back to the retirement home, I heard a deafening explosion in the skies above the little town. As always, I couldn't help thinking that the brewery had collapsed, that Saint Giles Cathedral had come tumbling down, but then I thought that perhaps it was the castle, I waited a moment, perhaps two jet planes had collided above the retirement home, after a while pieces of metal would fall one by one out of the sky and bury the castle and the park with the sandstone statues … But all was still, it had been nothing more than the air imploding behind the plane, which had flown at great speed through the sound barrier … And I quickly took three steps back and became aware of a higher warning system, the gutter, which had been dangling
from the side of the castle, was now torn off and landed horizontally on the ground, where it bounced once or twice and then grew quiet and peaceful, stretched out on the ground like a snake that had died long ago.

        A
FTER A MONTH
'
S STAY AT THE RETIREMENT HOME
, I suddenly felt disappointed. This was because I had always thought of myself as somewhat different from the rest, I wanted to be the only one who snuck out to the castle park, had a secret, did something forbidden, went from statue to statue, afraid someone might see me. But then I saw that anyone who wanted to could step over that fence, that the wire fence was really only there to alert the pensioners to the fact that behind the fence was a lost paradise. And so I very often ran into residents of the castle there, strolling around, and after a week I could see that they weren't really looking at the statues, they were just strolling around to kill time, to sit on the benches hidden under the beeches, sometimes they chatted, but mostly they said nothing and just stared
into space, and when the sun shone, suddenly every pensioner was a true sun-worshipper, they all stretched their legs, closed their eyes and turned their heads to the rays of sunlight, they'd sit like that for hours, legs stretched, listening closely as the warm sunlight penetrated the skin of their wrinkled faces, in that light, in that glow, they forgot all about their sad fate. I noticed that some of the pensioners preferred to sit with their backs, their spines, to the sun, the sun warmed their backs and every so often they groaned, as if the sun were rubbing them with camphorated oil and liniment. And then one morning I met three pensioners there, they were strolling about in silence, now and then they stopped, gave each other a certain look, as if they understood each other, sighed, and walked on. I knew them from the little town where time stood still, but I'd never had a reason to chat with them, the always elegant Mr. Otokar Rykr, his pince-nez in his hand one minute, on the base of his nose the next, workshop foreman Mr. Karel Výborný, with the same kind of cap that drivers wore, and Mr. Václav Kořínek, railroad engineer, who was constantly raking back his graying hair with widespread fingers. I looked up at Count Špork's coat of arms, at the seven plumes in two rows, the coat of arms above the castle gate that seemed to be floating toward the balustrade. As these silent old men walked past me, deep in thought, I turned around and said, I've heard that you
are witnesses to old times … perhaps you can tell me, who was Count Špork? They stopped, looked at me closely, then looked from one to the other, and it was as if they had been waiting for that question, not from just anyone, but from me and me alone, they were even hoping it would be from me, whom they had known for so long and with whom they only now, in the retirement home, stood face-to-face and who had asked them a question of real substance. Mr. Václav Kořínek pressed his grayish, unruly hair to his temples with both hands, and then spoke … Count Špork had chosen the baroness Františka Apollonia of Sweerts-Reist to be his bride, he gave her one year to think it over, if in that time she felt herself drawn to another man, she should simply tell him so, but in the end the wedding was held on the first of May in the year sixteen-hundred-and-eighty-six, in Silesia … said Mr. Kořínek, and then he turned to his two friends, Mr. Otokar Rykr pressed his pince-nez firmly onto his nose and continued … His wife bore him two sons here, they were baptized and the christening feast was truly regal, but before long both babes had been laid to rest in tiny coffins in a grave next to the Loretta Chapel, down below in the southwest corner of the monastery garden, they were later transferred to Kuks … said Mr. Rykr, and then he looked at the third witness to old times, Mr. Výborný, who continued … From then on it was like a monastery here
at the castle, the Augustinians celebrated their daily Mass, the Count had religious books read aloud to him and his two young daughters, which was why his daughters developed such a great longing for the pure, spiritual life. The eldest, Eleonora, entered the Order of the Annunciation and the Count had a convent built for her near Kuks, she died at the age of twenty. The other daughter, Anna Catherina, also wanted to enter a convent, but the Count flew into a rage, he claimed the convents were out to get his entire fortune. He decided the young countess needed somewhat more jovial companionship and found her a bridegroom, Lieutenant František Karel Rudolf, Baron of Sweerts-Reist, and since the Count suffered from a wasting disease, the strictest discipline prevailed here at the castle … said Mr. Výborný, who was sweating so profusely that he removed his cap and carefully wiped the inside dry. And the faces of all three witnesses to old times suddenly brightened, they looked at me and laughed heartily, they were excited by the fact that I'd been listening in such astonishment, my eyes wide, to everything they had said, astonished by everything they knew, such wonderful men right here in the castle, in the retirement home, just like me and the rest. They all three raised their hands, extended a finger, a forefinger, and I had the impression that they were about to start beating time, that at any moment they would all three burst into song,
but they were only counting off among themselves, the way children do with a counting rhyme, when one child has to leave the circle, and sure enough, they were counting off and when their fingers stopped at Mr. Výborný, he squinted his eyes and began … No one was allowed to leave the castle and go into town without permission, everyone had to be home by dark and boyish pranks were not tolerated, bandmaster and private tutor Tobiáš Seeman had entered all this in his journal … Mr. Výborný raised both his hands, opened his eyes and, with an elegant gesture, signaled to Mr. Kořínek, who announced joyfully … The court poetess Klimovská and her lover Hiëronymus, when their affair was discovered, each got fifty strokes of the cane in the presence of the whole court and were banished, Hiëronymus wearing only his undershirt … Even before he had finished his speech Mr. Výborný raised his hand and gave a sign to Mr. Otokar Rykr, who placed his hand on his chest and declaimed … Jiří Votava, Pařižek and Šimon would sometimes sneak into town in the evening, the next morning they would return from their noble pastime with bruised cheeks … This became known and they were given a sound thrashing by the Count. Šimon was not at all pleased about this, and received another thrashing for his insolence. The servant Simplex, a half-wit, got a beating when he refused to dance on command. And another because he had stolen a
bite of cheese and a sip of wine. The Count gave a two-hour lecture to a huntsman from Kostomlaty because he had ruined the wild goose hunt. The Count forbade swearing, and any incorrigible blasphemer who took God's name in vain was ordered to have his mouth stuffed with three spoonfuls of axle grease. If the Count saw someone lighting a fire at the game preserve, there was hell to pay. Sighing deeply, Mr. Otokar Rykr looked at his friends, he could go no further, one of them would have to continue. Mr. Výborný now gave himself a sign with both hands as he had to the others and went on cheerfully … Count Špork had noticed that one of the shutters on the town's schoolhouse was hanging from a single hook and immediately ordered the schoolmaster to sit on a wooden donkey outside the old town hall while the people jeered at him, Father Pabienský chose to leave the little town rather than suffer any longer under the Count, and so the Count died here, in this castle, and on the thirtieth of March, seventeen-hundred-and-thirty-eight … Mr. Výborný paused, looked around, gave a sign with both hands and the three put their heads together and chanted, in chorus … death was the great leveler! And so they concluded their performance, these three witnesses to old times, their heads together, eyes closed, and I, who have acted for thirty years in the local playhouse and been onstage more than six hundred times with the Hálek drama
club, I clapped my hands, because I'd never seen a performance quite like this, without a single rehearsal, just like that and just for me. When they lifted their heads and looked at me expectantly, I held out my arms and they all three grabbed my hand, they looked at me and beamed, as if they had found in me and because of me a reason to tell the story they had told so many times and hadn't had a single reason to tell again, I was a source of inspiration and a good excuse for them to show off, to brag about what they knew … That evening, directly after supper, these witnesses to old times invited me to go with them for a walk. The wind shook the boughs of the trees and the branches rustled as if each twig had a flag fluttering on the end of it. When we walked through the gate and strode down the lane, the branches scraped together and intertwined and the wood moaned and groaned like old skiffs and fishing boats in a harbor. The wind blew off the river, carrying the acrid smell of chemicals. The three old men were silent because we were walking through a suburb, tall sodium lamps cast their yellow light over the streets and roads, the houses and passersby. But we ourselves were the only passersby, there weren't even any cars or motorcycles. As we walked past the windows, I saw the blue glow of a television here and there through the curtains, they were probably broadcasting an important soccer match, because the viewers were shouting, thousands of
viewers burst into cheers. When we reached Starý Vala, Mr. Kořínek led us down a quiet side street. Here, gas lamps glowed among the sheltering leaves, the low houses were separated from the road by tall fences, but you could still see the blue screens through the cracks. And below us flowed our dear old Elbe, she wallowed in filth, tin cans and broken glass glittered in her murky depths. And across from us stretched the town ramparts, every hundred yards was a crumbling tower, from here, Cavalry Street, the little houses looked as if they had been glued to the embankment, they were built right into the old red walls. Each house was different, probably because the people who had built them had been too poor to build them any other way. We walked on, slowly, here and there the light from the gas lamps illuminated a farmhouse, windows, terraced gardens, rabbit hutches, goat sheds, concrete patios, washhouses, trees and red-currant and gooseberry bushes, which looked as unhealthy as our dear old Elbe. We crossed the bridge and walked through the streets, into the wind, the streets were deserted, I looked all around but didn't see a soul, not on Cavalry Street, not on Eliška Street, from house to house all you could hear was the jubilant voice of the sports commentator reporting on some international soccer match and the vocal cords of certainly more than thirty thousand spectators, voices that flowed together into one great
roar. When we walked through an alleyway toward the main road, the wind, which blew through the square whipping scraps of paper into mounds and scattering the contents of overturned trash cans, now chased all that garbage through the alleyway toward us. We turned around and walked backward until we reached the main street and after a few steps the wind died down. And the three witnesses to old times threw their arms in the air, delighted, I thought, that we had scored a goal, because the cheers of the viewers and the commentator had united all the televisions in the little town, and every house and every household has a television, so that the whole town was united by the soccer match. And on we walked, our arms raised, into the empty square, the windows of Hotel Na Knížecí were dimly lit, in each window a television beamed brightly, as if the moon were rising in the distance, waiters in white jackets stood motionlessly and gazed at a television screen, but in the square there wasn't a soul in sight. The plague column with the statue of the Virgin Mary was lit by four cast-iron lamps, gas lamps from the last century, at the base of the column were the statues of four saints who looked as if they were dancing. Mr. Rykr put on his pince-nez, smoothed down his pomaded hair, which clung to his scalp like a black bathing cap, and said in a low voice, his eyes on his two friends, who were standing by like two star witnesses
sworn to testify, they listened intently, now and again they gave their friend a nod to let him know they agreed with what he had said … In the eighteen-sixties, spoke Mr. Rykr, one hand held lightly to his throat, this little town had three thousand five hundred residents and three hundred forty houses, it was a provincial town lying in the exceptionally fertile Elbe Valley, where ears of wheat ripened in the sun, and flax for linseed oil. Wagoners would come down from the surrounding mountains to stock up on barley, flour, millet, lentils and peas. In addition to the wealthy grain dealers, of which there were twelve in those days, there were also three tinsmiths, twenty-six tailors, two cutlers, five furriers … The other two witnesses to old times suddenly grew stern, they held up their hands and cried out one after the other … Six! Mr. Rykr thought about this for a moment and then corrected himself, blushing slightly … Six furriers, three potters … Mr. Kořínek held up his hand and interrupted in a high, jubilant voice … Potter Štolba had his pottery workshop right near the Bobnitzer Gate and one of his glazed milk jugs, decorated with scenes from rural life, has been preserved to this day … He stepped back, took a bow and waved to his friend to continue, I hung on their every word, I was amazed that I hadn't known any of this, everything I heard was, at least for now, the most beautiful thing I'd ever heard before, because anything
that had to do with our little town, anything anyone told me, I found beautiful … There were twenty-three grocers, nine merchants, four ropemakers, one of whose names we know, Kreibich, who lived in the miserable neighborhood of Purk in nearby Zálabí, one milliner, four cap makers, one comb maker, eleven bakers, two wheelwrights, two watchmakers, five tanners, one carpenter, one master bricklayer, one skinner, four coachmen, two pastry chefs … and then the swinging doors of Hotel Na Knížecí flew open and a group of youths came running out, their raised arms trembled with enthusiasm, they shook their hands in the air and ran around the square yelling Goal! We had scored, the waiter stood in the doorway, dressed in black, only his white shirt and turned-back white cuffs let everyone know that our boys had scored a goal, the youths ran past, they had hair like girls, they were drenched in sweat, and as they ran they once again gave us the joyful news, that Czechoslovakia had scored, and then they ran back into Hotel Na Knížecí and there wasn't a soul left in the square, no one driving a car, no motorcycles. Mr. Kořínek, the whole time that the young men had been running around shouting, had held his arm in the air and when the last boy had disappeared, he picked up where his friend had left off and said, in a high voice … The most famous pastry chef of all was Jan Obst, who even appears in the memoirs of our poet Otakar Theer …