Harlequin's Millions (7 page)

fruit trees and grapevines, at such moments I nearly groaned at the memory of the little town and my brewery, also, of course, because fate had so completely deceived me, making me believe that this would be my joy and happiness, but it had all turned against me. Francin stopped coming to visit, he didn't come for a whole week, and then one day when I arrived at my perfume shop, I suddenly changed my mind and didn't even bother to raise the shutter, but went and sat in the café across the street, a long, narrow pub no wider than its own front doors, I sat there drinking coffee, I even ate lunch there in the midst of the smoke, the coughing and singing, the smell of spilled beer, and looked out the window at the opposite side of the street, where my perfumery stood, at about ten in the morning the mailman came and pushed a summons and a few letters under the shutter, and even from a distance I recognized them, my creditors, who came by several times a day and beat their canes against the door or pounded it with their fists, they listened closely, some of them knelt down and peered through the keyhole, and when they found that it was dark inside, they beat their fists against the door again and hurled profanities at the shutter … After a week I couldn't bear it anymore and went back to the little town, where my time stood still, in the brewery I fell to my knees before Francin and begged for mercy, I saw him smiling, saw how happy he
was, he even tried to cheer me up, comfort me, and when I'd stopped crying, he burst out laughing, I don't think I'd ever seen Francin as happy as when he went to borrow money to pay back everything I owed, according to the contract I was even supposed to have paid six months' rent in advance … but I wanted nothing better than to live in the brewery and do my shopping in the little town where my time had stood still but now, like a severed cord whose ends had been tied together again, seemed endless. And Francin sang day and night, he couldn't hide his joy at the fact that I was broke because I'd been unfaithful to the little country town. And one day it was hours before Francin returned from Prague, he didn't arrive until evening. In the courtyard was a big truck and the back seat had been removed from the Škoda, when the driver and his assistant lifted the tarp, I saw that the truck was crammed full of perfumes and powders and beauty soaps, everything packed in boxes, Francin sang and hummed, he and the driver's assistant carried two cabinets down from the attic, they opened another large cabinet that was built into the wall, and then the men worked until midnight loading my whole Oreum into those cabinets, including the contents of the storeroom, among which were demijohns of cheap perfumes and essences. And Francin paid for the transportation and from then on our whole house smelled like a perfumery, the smells and
scents wafted into the kitchen and from there to the rooms, the whole attic and cellar smelled of perfume, the bushels of apples in the attic and the potatoes in the cellar, even the liver sausages after hog-killing time. For me, those smells were a permanent reproach, Francin knew that, and so everyone who worked with him on the Škoda, every week from Saturday to Sunday someone came over to help Francin work on the car, and he let them choose whatever they wanted from the cabinets. And since nearly all the citizens of the little town helped Francin work on the car, ten years after the perfumery affair the whole town still smelled of perfume, because people took home bags and boxes full, so that in the movie theater and the playhouse, in the pubs and clubs every man came in smelling of my cologne, which he'd doused himself with after shaving, women's faces were rosy with my rouge and lightly dusted with my powder, I also recognized my combs and brushes … but what good did it do, when all I had left was a single cabinet, a cabinet that I moved to our new house when Francin was forced to retire, to the little villa on the Elbe, which I had designed myself, but which was so drafty and where such a stormy wind blew off the river that after a while the cabinet of powders and perfumes had flooded our home on the river too …

        W
HEN THE AUTUMN WINDS AND RAIN SET IN, THE
retirement home was drenched in torrents of water, “Harlequin's Millions” softly accompanied the gurgling of the gutters and drainpipes, the water splashed down and seeped behind the plasterwork, because the gutters and drainpipes were full of holes, some had even been torn from the wall, at such moments the castle somehow resembled all those old people, who cleared their throats and then nearly choked in fits of coughing. The three witnesses to old times sat in an alcove near a large window through which you could see the whole town laid out before you, shrouded in mist, the deanery church towering in the rain like an old ship. I walked through the corridors, stopped now and then and looked down at the river, the mists rising from its surface, and behind
it, the beige-colored brewery. Yes, it was a good thing that I'd been so proud, that I'd stayed so young and pretty for so long, that I'd loved getting all spruced up, that I'd made clear to everyone who greeted me that I was the wife of the manager of the beige-colored brewery, returned their nods and received their compliments, because I deserved them. And I deserved to be proud of my four rooms, my dresses, my body, each dress was made for me by the finest seamstresses from patterns in
Elegante Welt
, the dresses always accentuated my hips and breasts, my legs, and the accessories I bought in Prague to go with them, the handbags and shoes, the gloves and hats were the perfect complement to my provocative figure, that's why I was proud of who I was. And now, here in the retirement home, now that I'd had all my teeth pulled out, now that my hair was grayer than oakum, now that my figure exuded nothing but faded charm and no one could imagine the charm I'd once had, for the first time I was ashamed of my old age, I tried my best, smiling, talking incessantly, to keep others and particularly myself from dwelling on what had happened to me, that I had grown so old, that I was now an ugly old hag … But when I saw how all the old women here in the castle, whom I'd driven to exasperation a quarter of a century ago with my dresses and figure, when I saw how pleased they were to see what had become of me, how it was my turn
now, and they made that very clear, they were thrilled with my downfall, they even put on nice dresses just to spite me, they laughed at me, flaunting their false teeth, they swept up their bleached blond hair and reveled in the fact that I was withering away, they reveled at my humiliation and despondence at the lamentable fate that had befallen me and I suddenly realized that just as I had once been proud of my youthful appearance, which I'd kept for so long, I now not only could be, but
had
to be, proud that I was who I was. And so I didn't even try to wear my dentures, even when I had them, nor did I dye my hair to look like everyone else, but became proud of my ugliness, I accentuated everything that made me old … And so I became the woman I once was, a proud old woman who stood out from the rest, just as I had when I rode around on my bicycle and the whole town was dazzled by my beautiful legs, which were like the hands on the face of the cathedral clock. And so it was that wherever I went walking, through the castle or along the footpaths in the park, I walked with my head held high, wearing battered shoes and the cheapest dresses, the kind no one ever wore anymore, cotton, ready-to-wear dresses, which I never ironed, and I don't know how it came about, but I always ran into the witnesses to old times, who treated me with the utmost courtesy, they gallantly offered me a chair and went to great lengths to tell me everything they
knew about the little town where time stood still. “Harlequin's Millions” softly spun its chintzy, chocolate-box melody, a melody as touching as the music that accompanied a Chaplin film, the witnesses to old times seemed to regard me as a kind of prop, a piece of scenery left over from those bygone days, they'd turn to me and eagerly tell me everything that had happened in their younger years, preferably things they didn't remember themselves, but which they had heard from their grand-fathers, or knew from their notes, or old books. Today, when the autumn rains set in, I walked back from the castle park, where I had gazed almost lustfully at the statues of young women and men, nude statues that seemed to have risen from the sea, or from clean, clear rivers, when I had absorbed the essence of youth from those statues, my innermost self, because in my time I'd lived just like the heroes and demigods that Count Å pork's sculptors and architects had placed in our garden, when this had cheered me up, I was proud to feel a deep kinship with the statues, proud that they evoked scenes from my youth, my younger years. And when I walked, soaking wet, through the corridors, where my contemporaries sat in armchairs in their slippers, pretending to read and suppressing a persistent cough, I strutted proudly past them, leaving behind a little trail of rainwater that dripped from my cotton dress and shabby shoes, I strutted about, proud of my
poverty, my misfortune, my rain-drenched clothes, I saw that I was no different than I used to be. The old women pretended to be reading, to be tying their aprons, to be completely absorbed in a phony conversation, and all this to ensure that I keep on walking and they wouldn't have to look at me. And I knew that the moment I had passed them by, they would look at me again, look at me with anger and resentment, the way they used to when I rode past on my bicycle and left behind a trail of women's eyes, envying me … And the three witnesses to old times, sitting under a rediffusion box, when they saw how soaked I was, offered me a chair next to the radiator, they rubbed their hands and looked at me as if I were a young girl, I seemed to inspire them, because what they told me seemed to be intended for me alone, as I sat there with the hot ribs of the radiator in my back and “Harlequin's Millions” pouring down on us from above, those poignant millions that lent a frayed, doleful, amorous tone to the voices of the three witnesses to old times. And rippling across the ceiling was the fresco of a faun abducting a nymph, the faun's eyes were drunk with lust, he was naked, he carried fruit in a cloth and the nymph was sure of herself and enjoyed the effect she was having on the faun, who was mesmerized by her naked gymnast's figure. And I could see that the three witnesses to old times had nothing more to say to each other, they had already told
each other everything, they were just waiting for me so they could rally and tell me all the marvelous things they knew. Mr. Otokar Rykr stood up and pointed downward, to where the old graveyard glistened and gleamed with its black marble gravestones, golden crosses, and he said enthusiastically … You should know that the names of all our famous citizens are engraved there in stone, anyone can read them, but without their nicknames no one would know exactly who was buried there. For example, Červinka the Parasol owed his nickname to his sweetheart from the village, to whom he had given a parasol that she brought along with her, in his honor, whenever she came to the little town, she carried it everywhere, rain or shine. Červinka the Perch, who looked out into the world with large, pale eyes, like a fish. Červinka the Gimp, who plodded around his native soil on his big flat feet. And it was inevitable that the Červinka with white flakes in his hair who was constantly scratching himself was called Lousehead! Červinka the Periwig was excessively proud of his luxuriant curls. Tall, bony Červinka the Greyhound never made a secret of the fact that he'd have preferred a different nickname. Another member of this family was the elderly, always impeccably dressed and worldly bachelor and economist Červinka Koruna. For his brother, however, an utter failure in matters of finance, the townsfolk came up with the name Busted. There was also Červinka
the Cigar, whose son František Mincemeat died an untimely death. Then there was the barley merchant Sweatbuckets, Červinka-Untergleichen and Červinka from Upstairs … After Červinka, the name Dlabač was a close second. The wealthiest Dlabač was known as Dlabač Moneybags. Another was a retired soldier, the son of Dlabač the Rib Roast, which he pronounced Wib Woast, a butcher whose daughter had inherited her father's bad pronunciation of the letter
r
and sang glowia in church instead of gloria. I've never quite figured out how Dlabač the Rogue and Dlabač the Ramrod got their epithets. A prominent official at the gymnasts' society was Dlabač the Baron, who, in eighteen-hundred-and-seventy-nine, delivered a funeral oration in Kolín on behalf of his division, at the end of which he cried: Long may his ashes live among us! The burly butcher Dlabač was known as Pork Butt. Fewer in number than the two preceding families were the Votavas. Among them was the merchant Votava Pantalone, whose nickname was a reference to that rather shady character in the marionette shows. On Palacký Avenue Antonín Votava the Musician had a bakery, he was a music lover, especially choral music, and wrote out the singers' parts for the local choral society. In Saint George Street another Votava, who sold women's trousers, was called Votava the Useless, because of his favorite expression, What's the use of wearing a
dress? One of the Voháňkas, who lived on the Velký Val, owed his nickname Rawhide to his profession as a tanner. Another, a grocer on Palacký Avenue, was called Voháňka-Laudon, after the Austrian generalisimo. Two wealthy Zedrichs even rechristened members of their own family as they saw fit. Jan Zedrich, who owned the corner house on the square, became Zedrich on the Corner, his young nephew Vincenc Zedrich was called Bubi. Mr. Theer, who was rather short and had a limp, was known in the pubs where he sold various delicacies as One-Leg Theer. A fervent lottery player, he won twice in a row. Ecstatic, the little fellow hobbled right out and bought a whole pig, which he and his family devoured from snout to tail. One of the two sisters Taubicová, who lived on Palacký Avenue, had an enormous braid. Whenever she went dancing she asked her partners to hold on to that braid, so it wouldn't swing back and forth. That's why she was called Miss Taubicová-Holdmytail. Jan Zedrich on the Corner's housekeeper was nicknamed the Poplar because of her tall build. The beloved wife of One-Leg Theer was called The Razor, because of her razor-sharp tongue, and Červinka Koruna's housekeeper, an old spinster who had once been a salesgirl, was known as Nanka from the Shop. The person who had thought up most of these nicknames was the owner of an estate in Zálabí, Mr. Mospek or Mostpek … Mr. Rykr told me, and he looked
into my eyes, and I saw that he was young, that in telling me all this he had become so young again he looked like a silenus, a satyr who danced naked and abducted a naked nymph to take back up with him to the ceiling, it was as if Mr. Rykr had fallen out of one of the frescoes that rippled across the ceiling and landed in an armchair. Mr. Karel Výborný, old witness to golden times, was quivering with impatience and when Otokar had finished telling his story, he laid his hand confidentially on my shoulder and said lovingly … Grandmother Popíšilová, née Hulíková, a woman of ninety, told more or less the following story about the Bolen family. In her day, there were six Bolens. One daughter married František Dlabač, the second, a Červinka, the third married Antonín Hulík but died not long after the wedding, leaving behind a little boy, František, Grandma Popíšilová's father, who took as his wife Ludmila Červinková, but the son, Vojtěch Bolen, never married, and lived with the Červinka family, the parents of Červinka Koruna. Then there was Veronika, who lived in the Old Fishery, across from the river island. She was single, knew how to handle a gun, and sailed up and down the Elbe in a large boat. After her death František Hulík inherited the Old Fishery. The last of the Bolen family was Baruška, who lived next to the church, where Mr. Netušil's house had once stood, and she gave her house to Grandma Popíšilová's father, František Hulík, and
moved into the Old Fishery. BaruÅ¡ka adored Grandma Popíšilová's mother and told her the family secret of how the English queen Anne Boleyn had had an unhappy marriage and fled with her lover to our little town. She had a baby with her, whose bonnet and blanket ended up in the hands of Červinka Koruna and the story went that Koruna had donated them to the museum, but Grandma had never seen them there. Koruna's second cousin FrantiÅ¡ek Červinka inherited the bonnet and blanket, so you'd think he would have had them in his possession, but we know nothing more about that. So much for Grandmother Popíšilová … Mr. Karel Výborný finished telling his story, he had shifted his gaze to the Elbe, where the Old Fishery rose up on the riverbank, entwined with grapevines and old legends, then Mr. Výborný pinched the back of my hand and quick as lightning I felt my clothes drying, I saw the fumes and odors from my miserable cotton dress rising up past my ears. Rivers of rain lashed against the window, streaming down the panes like tears, and the little town where time stood still was immersed in rainwater, “Harlequin's Millions” filled the corridors of the old castle with its incomparable melody and Mr. Rykr said in a low voice … When I was a child, the Old Fishery was already vacant. Since time immemorial it had been home to the Bolen family, who fished for a living. Their name served them well, since
bolen
is a type of
fish, Leuciscus aspius, or asp fish. Everyone in the Bolen family was tall and had blond hair and blue eyes, for the rest they were rather tight-lipped and sullen … The story goes that one night long ago, when fishermen from our own little town were still living in the Old Fishery, a boat was moored to the fishery pier and a pair of strangers disembarked, they spoke broken Czech and presented the fishermen with a baby, which the fishermen were to raise as their own, and the strangers rewarded them handsomely for their kindness. The baby, it is said, was dressed quite luxuriously for those days, his bonnet was embroidered with silver thread and the pillow on which he lay in his swaddling clothes was stitched with gold. The baby's pillow, garments, and bonnet, or so people say, was preserved by a family in the little town, probably the Červinkas. Tradition has it that this was the arrival of the first Bolen in the little town where time stood still. My grandmother described Veronika Bolenová as a big, strong old woman, who was out in her boat on the Elbe day and night and always carried a gun and scythe. She kept mostly to herself, and after her death the Old Fishery fell into disrepair … The three of us looked at the windowpanes, where the rain was streaming down in rivulets, the large puddle that had formed around my shoes had dried, steam was still rising from my dress, yet I was moved by the image of that old woman, Veronika