The Drowning Of A Goldfish (10 page)

The instructors are sent into the factories and offices to teach Russian to the employees. The weekly one and one-half hour is taken from their working day. Who would dare touch their leisure time?

Their textbooks are offered free, and the students learn, with great difficulty and little comprehension, how to spell words written in azbuka—the Russian alphabet.

To learn Russian does not hurt anybody and it has certain advantages: It shows that their relationship towards the Soviet Union is “positive and constructive”; it is added as a “cultural activity” on their records and will be taken into consideration as a “group activity” during their assessment.

My role as instructor is not to bore the participants beyond measure, to let them doze with half-closed eyes and to assign good marks at the end of the course. This course is the first of a three-level cycle, followed by a course in either conversation or literature, according to the participants' choice.

The repetition of the work of learning a language fascinates me, even comforts me, making me breathe the air of my childhood, an era I cannot sever.

Light as a feather dancing in the breeze, I leave Vladimír. I flutter across the hill towards the hospital. Distributing happy hellos and radiant smiles I float into the dining room.

Without waiting for Rudolf, I step into line, fill my tray, and start to appease my well-deserved appetite. I seethe with impatience, wanting to tell the first person who comes along of my joy. I am dying to share it with the whole world.

Rudolf enters. In vain he looks for me at the entrance, where I should be humbly waiting. His disapproving glance finds me, eyebrows dipping with deep concern.

Contemplating me with disgust, he sits down beside me.

“How dare you come here out of breath, your hair in a mess, your hands dirty, and your skirt God knows how far above your knees?!

“Look at yourself for a change! And don't forget that you are my wife and people will judge me also by you!

“Either you behave or, next time, you'd better stay at home!”

He probes me. He frisks me. I do not live up to his standards.

Why am I not prostrate, overwhelmed with grief, plunged in distress like other times?!

What is happening behind this obstinate forehead? My eyes are no longer looking down.

How come this mouth does not clench and stop chewing? Why does the food not get blocked in my throat?

I gulp the last forkful and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand—another strictly forbidden gesture.

I scoff at him, saying:

“You know, I have found a job …”

Stunned, he is looking at me in startled disbelief and absolute disapproval.

His eyes look mad and icy.

Now did I dare do such a thing without asking for his advice, without begging for his consent?!

“You won't need to support me any longer.… and I can even bring you money.”

His eyes move back and forth, his eyelids flutter.

Ah! The redeeming side of an irritating problem!

Now he knew how to make use of me! From this moment on, he would confiscate every penny I earned, even checking my working hours.

In order to avoid “any possible fraud,” he would set up a new column in his account book: the revenue of my Russian courses.

He would excel in this to such a degree that, one day in the remote future, when the accountant of the newspaper where I would work as journalist, would forget to pay me for one of my articles, Rudolf would phone the office to inquire about it, thinking that I had embezzled money from him.

When Grandmother used to go to the market, it was the servant, accompanying her, who would pay.

“A lady never touches something as vulgar as money, my little girl,” Grandmother divulged to me confidentially.

My attitude towards money is quaint: like a primitive, I prefer an exchange of goods to outright buying.

For English lessons, my hair is done.

For French lessons, my clothes are custom-made at one of the fashion houses in Prague.

I offer and I receive.

I am fair with others, others are fair with me.

Society and I live in a heavenly equilibrium.

Rudolf does not understand my economical-emotional transactions; I should add that I exchange only with friends.

Rudolf is of a voracious and gluttonous species. He sinks his claws into his prey and slinks off into solitary shadows to devour it all by himself.

He takes everything and gives nothing in return. Of course—as he never forgets to mention—when he married me, he gave me his name and the social protection that goes along with it.

“What a fool to ruin my career by marrying the daughter of a banker?!

“It wasn't pleasant dragging crates filled with chemicals, was it?! Or have you already forgotten?!”

Rudolf quickly forgot his initial motives for marrying me. The role of Savior of my little life pleases him enormously. His admiration for his own generosity is unbounded.

He sits, a glass of red wine in his hand, the bottle in front of him, his eyes more and more distant, moist and sentimental, basking in the waves of his stupefying generosity.

The theme of his alcoholic meditations never changes:

No sin is more repellent than ingratitude and he wants to be dead-sure that, in spite of my “horrifying faults,” I shall never fall as low as that.

The drone of his voice, resembling more and more the buzzing of flies feasting on a decaying carcass, fills me with a sickening disgust.

Rudolf raises his glass, a contented grin smears across his face, his head rolls back, his swollen belly protrudes in his unbuttoned trousers, his hand falls, the remainder of the wine stains the armchair.

The lesson is over.

I leave at five-thirty.

The town, pulled from a gray slumber, groans in irritation. Drowsy people with puffy, pillow-creased faces shake off their torpor to the rhythm of the crowded trams.

I swing with them, adapting myself to the cadenced intervals and rest in the warmth of their heavy, worn-out bodies. I become one of the crowd; my mind structured and reassurring.

At each stop, a human wave bursts its banks, raises me up, lowers me down, finally spitting me out at the front of the Chemička, the largest chemical factory in Czechoslovakia. Here I teach Russian every day: from six to seven-thirty to the factory workers, from eight to nine-thirty to the office employees, from nine-thirty to eleven to the management.

Swept along with the crowd through the entrance of the factory, I flash my passcard which gives me the right to be like anybody: not a “dangerous spy,” not an “enemy of the working class,” but a little ant among the two thousand species of ants, an ant who can participate in the life of the colony, quite a brave little ant, carrying on its back a load heavier than itself. Its character is tough, its spirit is good, its zeal can serve as an example.

The shop floor is on two levels. It is a vast, long, and narrow space. The columns, supporting the stained glass roof, as well as the spiral staircase, are of wrought iron. Built at the Belle Epoque, it marks an era where industry let itself be inspired by art.

On the lower level, the workers in blue overalls are running about, pushing wheelbarrows, emptying and refilling them.

The next moment, they suddenly disappear, blown away by the ice-cold draft.

On the upper level, chemicals boil in huge vats; acidic vapors rise to the roof, covered with a yellowish film. The pungent, invasive, sour smell invades my nostrils and distorts my mouth.

Lost and helpless, I do not know where to go.

Some workers notice me and signal me to advance.

The small classroom is situated behind the shop floor. Everyone is present, seated at a brown wooden table, the Russian textbooks placed in front of them, hands folded on their knees. Their overalls are still clean; the first shift has just started.

I look at them. They look at me.

I say “Hello.” They reply in unison: “Hello, Comrade Instructor.”

Our relationship is straightforward: We are here to show our good will. Docilely they are following company policy. I am earning my living and nourishing the hope that I may enter the University some day.

I introduce myself, open the book, we begin to spell the first letters of azbuka. I pronounce the words, they repeat after me: papa, mama, fabrika.

They open their mouths, the words come out … Full, round, soothing: father, mother, factory.

A little girl, with a large book in her arms, is lost
.

The book is real, the pictures are real but the words rub their black feet contemptuously on the white paper
.

Turn them as you like, they will tell you nothing
.

Grandmother is cooking the dinner; Mother is out; Father is working in his office
.

Grandfather is sitting at his desk, hunched over his stamp collection. One must not disturb him. This I know for sure
.

I approach him like a kitten moving to a steaming bowl of milk. Standing on my tiptoes, I look over his shoulder:

Has he finished yet?

Timidly, I give a little cough, I balance on one foot and then on the other. I try to make myself noticeable
.

Grandfather does not move. His back is turned, his hand is travelling from one stamp to another. He is completely absorbed in his own world
.

What shall I do?!

I lift my hand and pull the sleeve of his jacket
.

Stunned by my own impudence, I close my eyes and make myself tiny as I retreat towards the door, preparing to flee before his wrath ignites
.

“
Grandfather, please, teach me how to read
…”

He lifts his head and looks at me. He is so handsome! Not a speck of dust nor a hint of stain mark his gray suit. The flower in his buttonhole is as fresh as a spring morning, his pink pearly fingernails shine on his delicate hands
.

Grandfather's eyes return from a distant land and he appraises me. He finds me worthy of his attention
.

“
You know, it is not so simple. You must be zealous, and concentrate. Are you ready to do it?”

I nod vigorously
.

“
Grandfather, I shall do anything you wish, I'll even take my cod liver oil every morning … if you will only, please, teach me how to read!
”

We are sitting at the table. Their heavy, massive heads, pitted by chemical vapors and fatigue, pores blocked with grayish dust, are bent over the books: papa, mama, fabrika …

I am no longer there to simply earn my living and with it entry to the University. And they are not just automatically following company policy.

We are there to learn how to read.

The next course from eight to nine-thirty takes place in the administrative building, a dull construction, built after the war.

The cultural center of the factory is located there.

The front wall is decorated with the portrait of the President of the Czechoslovak Republic, flanked on the left by the portrait of Lenin, on the right by an imposing white stain of gigantic dimensions—where the portrait of Stalin once was.

The table, covered with a red tablecloth, is surrounded by brown, lacquered wooden chairs. A lot of well-watered plants are aligned on the windowsill.

Ten people turn their heads when I enter. One of them steps forward to me, shakes my hand, and introduces me to the other participants.

“This is Comrade Velenská, our new instructor. Pleased to meet you, Comrade.”

Politely, I bow my head and smile at the secretaries and engineers; the majority are women, all of them well-dressed and groomed.

Here, night has already gone, fatigue has been dissipated with the third cup of strong, black coffee.

Here, one does not learn how to read. We have all taken the same Russian exam before graduating high school. The engineers have, in addition, spent twelve terms reading Russian in college.

Our ages are within a range of five years and I am among the youngest. My task will not be a simple one.

They watch me and wait. Their silence clutches my throat, sticking my lips together. I have to do something before I shall be completely paralyzed.

I exert a concentrated effort and, in despair, gather the energy to pull myself out of this morass.

I squeeze the book in my sweaty hands, its familiar shape reassuring me.

I unlock my jaw and sounds begin to leave my mouth: they are soft and smooth.

“Pojalsta, otkroite knigu na stranitce dvadcatj pjatj (Please, open the book to page twenty-five).”

We begin to read.

With loving tenderness, I caress each word as I pronounce it. I build an insurmountable barrier around myself, my magic castle, suspended in the air. Here I utter groups of phrases so that they can follow, joining me in the magical world of words, where Chekhov tells of the lady with the little dog, who walks with him on the beach of a melancholic ocean, whose waters drown the febrile human agitations in their bottomless pit.

Out of breath, I finish my reading. I smile, inviting, with a welcoming gesture, the most charming of them to follow me.

“It is your turn to read, Comrade.”

My ambition to be a widow at Senokosy
—
the sweet dream of my childhood
—
changes dramatically in my teens. Under the influence of M
^lle.
de Scudéry, a 17th century feminist writer, my aspiration metamorphoses: I am striving to be the inspired hostess of a literary salon, imagined to the smallest detail
.

Intricate silvery objects, sink into lush black velvet, carpeting the space with rounded corners
.

A soft, seeping light descends from the domed ceiling
,
projecting pearly stars on the ebony furniture, placed on a huge wolf skin
.

We nestle in the depths of soft silk cushions, sipping exotic teas from delicate translucent china
.

While nibbling at delicious almond cookies, we read literature …