Harlequin's Millions, Page 2

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  AFTER 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 … He took a bow, stepped back and turned his head upward, in profile, and now it was Mr. Rykr who held forth … There was one lumberyard, three saddlers, all named Holomoucký, four cabinetmakers, nineteen shoemakers and equally as many taprooms, six of them for hard liquor, two buttermakers, two brickmakers, one soap-boiler, two bookbinders, one fisherman in Zálabí, two millers, Karel Radimský and Josef Mlejnek, three locksmiths, one milkmaid, three weavers, one wood turner, two hairdressers, one roofer, two wool dyers, five market vendors, one stove fitter, no less than five dry and fancy goods shops, two flour warehouses, one shop that sold kitchenware, the glazier was named Krása … Mr. Otokar Rykr intoned, clearly, solemnly, filled with emotion, like someone reciting a litany of Mary, the wind had swept the square so clean that the cobblestones gleamed like Mr. Rykr’s pomaded hair. Just then, coming out of Mostecká Street, were two huge women, giantesses, Uncle Pepin would have said, as big as Maria Theresa, they walked along, both with dyed blond hair swept into a high ponytail and tied with a long white scarf, their hair stuck up like plumes, as if the women were holding it up with their own hands … they were walking along and complaining bitterly, one of them even appeared to have tears in her eyes, they walked across the square, in front of them ran a little dog that kept turning to look back at them, but the giantesses kept on walking, both were smoking cigarettes, now and then the wind crumbled tiny sparks off the tips that flew on ahead until they went out. Then we began moving again, we crossed the square and walked through the streets, peered into the windows of the houses, in each one a blue screen beamed, the image on the screen trembled with the movements of the players, you could see the profiles of the people sitting in front of the television, here and there someone stood up, but his silhouette kept on watching, and someone else poured beer from a glass jug without taking his eyes off the screen, so as not to miss a single movement, a single pass. Mr. Kořínek spoke, in a high voice … A hundred years ago in our little town there were twenty pubs, ten bars and thirteen shops that sold beer. But the people also had other means of amusement. Traveling magicians, illusionists and theatrical troupes all came to our little town. On rare occasions there was even a magic lante
rn show, with painted slides projected on a screen. Later there were moving images, which caused quite a sensation. As early as nineteen-hundred-and-five there was a tent on Na rejdišti where scenes were projected from the Russo-Japanese War, and the audience cheered whenever the Japanese fled from the Russians. These shows always had a narrator, and sometimes musical accompaniment from the enormous horn of a gramophone. The images were called magical-spiritualistic. On Thursday May the third, eighteen-hundred-and-ninety-eight, one such performance was held in the Pelikán clubhouse by the Prague artist and cinematic pioneer Viktor Ponrepo. On Sunday November the fourth there was a similar performance at Hotel Na Knížecí by mind reader and hypnotist Schobl. By nineteen-hundred-and-eight you had Ponec’s traveling cinema on Na rejdišti and Korba’s nightclub the Royal Bishop, both had moving images … We walked along the Velký Val, the motionless water shone through the overhanging branches of the old chestnut trees like a black mirror, in which the gas lamps were reflected in a mesh of leaves, we walked past the tall, dismal-looking manor house, past its high walls, through the battered gate a large lantern shone down on piles of scrap metal, piles of discarded refrigerators, radiators, baby carriages, piles of defective radios and television sets. Mr. Václav Kořínek was moved. Above the streets the sounds from all the televisions murmured and mingled, shouts and cheers that blended with the encouraging cries of thirty thousand viewers, their voices murmuring like the sea, like the surf, ebbing and swelling rhythmically, above those waves the voice of the commentator triumphed, emphatic, enthusiastic, sometimes his voice merged with the screams and shouts, which merged with the sound of a military trumpet. Mr. Kořínek continued … When my grandfather was discharged from the army, he got married and worked as a farmhand in Michle, near Prague. In eighteen-hundred-and-sixty-four he came here on foot with his wife and three young children, whom he transported in a baby carriage, underneath which he had tied a few pots and pans, he came here to work for Zedrich. Here too Grandpa was a farmhand and coachman … spoke Mr. Kořínek, and tapped on the crumbling wall of the manor house, which is now a collection site for scrap metal and old paper. And he went on … They were given a place to live in the servants’ quarters, in a large room with one family living in each corner. The stove stood in the middle and they all had to share it. These people had no theater, or magic shows, or any other form of entertainment. There were several of these rooms in the house, one next to the other. The people were contented, for the most part, they didn’t know much else outside of their daily grind, and since each of these farmhands was allowed to fatten up one or two hogs a year, slaughtering time was always great fun. And Grandpa always looked forward to the annual veterans’ reunion, where they met to discuss their uniforms, which had to be properly soldierlike, with a tunic, starred insignia and a Federbüsche, a stiff shako with cocks’ feathers. The platoon commanders wore waistbands with long tassels and the chief commanders had sashes across their chest and the whole troop had its own standard … he said, and we crossed a quiet little bridge and came to the water tower, once again the wind rose and raised clouds of dust and paper and leaves, once again we turned around and walked backward, with our backs to the windstorm blowing in from the streets, and as we walked backward I could see into the window of every house, into the living rooms, the half-dark kitchens, where a blue screen beamed and where all the eyes of the viewers were fixed on the playing field, just like the eyes of the viewers sitting in their living rooms, the extraordinarily important soccer match was still underway, the images moved back and forth, someone stood up in a living room and thrashed his arms around, then sank back down into his chair or onto the sofa or was pulled down by his family, his friends. Walking backward in this way, we made a circle and wound up back at the square, the wind chased the scraps of paper and empty ice-cream wrappers and cardboard cigarette cartons, it drove them on like little paper pin-wheels, in an uneven rhythm. And three chubby girls came running, trotting, out of Mostecká Street, they wore tracksuits, over which they had pulled on a second tracksuit made of clear plastic, and so, wrapped in cellophane, like boxes of chocolates, they came trotting in from the river island, Ostrov, when they ran past us they smelled of fresh air and wind, they were bareheaded and their thick hair dripped with sweat, that’s how fast they were trotting, they panted and the sweat poured down their faces, as if they were in the shower, but they smiled and trotted into Eliška Street, they were delighted to be shedding a few extra pounds, and convinced that only then would they be as happy as girls whose weight was in proportion to their height … Mr. Karel Výborný pointed to the plague column and said … A hundred years ago the police didn’t have much to do around here, the occasional drunk, or a brawl in a pub that no longer exists, like the Little Stomper and the Big Stomper, the Heavenly Host, the Bloody Paw, Café Pigskin and so on. Their other duties were to make sure the pubs closed on time, chase away boys who were swimming in forbidden places, especially those who dove off the railing of the wooden bridge that once stood next to the home of the Halíř family. The chief of police at the time was District Manager Šulc, who was always in plainclothes, he wore a black tailcoat, on his head was a majestic black uniform cap with a cockade. He was rarely seen on the streets, with the exception of Mondays and Thursdays, when he opened the weekly market in the square at the appointed hour by shouting, in a powerful voice: You may begin shopping! And at the same moment a police officer would mount a metal flag with the town arms on the railing around the plague column … And once again the wind dropped, the three witnesses to old times left the square and turned into Mostecká Street, I walked between them, we walked in the road, because there was no traffic, none at all, no cars or motorcycles, my heart pounded with all those stories of things I knew absolutely nothing about, I turned around and only now did I see the real square, I saw there what could no longer be seen, but what my three friends and I did see, those old witnesses to old times, of which I myself was now one. I shivered, imagine if these old men grew angry with me, if I said something to offend them, something that made them hate me, not like me anymore, I wished they could stay here forever, or at least for as long as I did, so they could keep telling me stories about things that had happened long ago, which excited me more than the old Czech legends. So after a while we stopped and stood in the middle of the bridge, from the depths of the river to the lamps rising high above the piers the wind carried the smell of chemicals, of washed pyrite and phenol, which for years had been floating down from somewhere in Chvaletice and turned that beautiful river into an industrial cesspool of brown sludge and its water the color of alder sap, blood-red water you could no longer swim in. Mr. Kořínek, his pale hair billowing around his sharply defined profile, which, as he spoke, was so beautiful that it was as if the old witness were young again, telling his stories made him fifty years younger, this Mr. Kořínek was looking upward, but at the same time toward the place where the things he was telling us had really happened … Now he pointed across the river, where above the water the lights of a two-story farmhouse glimmered, completely hidden in the black night, and where the lighted windows were reflected vaguely on the water’s surface, he pointed and said … There, do you see, from that very spot, where the light has just gone on in the window, the twenty-six-year-old journalist Jan Neruda admired the splendid view, from the garden of the U Fišerky wine bar, of Ostrov, of the majestic Elbe and the roaring dam. Neruda was also pleased and enthusiastic about the pure, unadulterated Czech spoken by our girls … he said, and turned and pointed to the town, the statue of the Virgin Mary towered above the square, lit from below by street lamps … There, just over there, lived the watchmaker František Donát who, on the twenty-third of July eighteen-hundred-and-ninety, for the greater glory of our little town, entered three clocks in the National Jubilee Exhibition … said Mr. Kořínek in a high-pitched voice, and the lights went on in the windows above the river, one window after another gleamed and gleamed again in the mirror of the water, a window flew
open in the mill, the figure of a young man appearered in the glare of a lightbulb, he flung his arms wide and shouted: We won! and threw up a rocket that flared briefly and then fell, shattering to pieces, the colorful shower of sparks in honor of our victory rained down on the river … The first cars passed, an enthusiastic driver rolled down his window and shouted out … We won, four to one! And he flapped his hands and blessed us, Mr. Kořínek nodded his approval and continued … Three splendid clocks, the great drawing-room clock had a pendulum and extra dials showing the months and the days of the week. This clock was eight feet tall, Renaissance style, and worth two hundred Austrian guilders. The second clock had a repeat movement and struck the quarter hour. The third was a restaurant clock with a little red star that sprang out whenever the clock needed rewinding. Mr. Kořínek stopped talking, in Mostecká Street brightly lit windows flew open, on either side of the street people leaned out, shouting and waving their arms, congratulating each other through the air, when we arrived back at the square it was swarming with people, hotel guests who had been watching the match came pouring out of the Na Knížecí, they ran down the steps cheering and shouting to each other as if they themselves had been victorious, and they weren’t entirely wrong, because just moments before we’d been walking through the little town where time stood still and hadn’t met a soul, but now the streets were filled with young people, some even carrying flags, they chanted slogans in time with their footsteps and waved their flags and headed for the square, in the streets the lighted windows trembled, in the living rooms and kitchens people were moving about, they stretched their limbs, weary from the excitement of the game … We held on to each other tightly and made our way back to the castle, just as we reached the avenue of old chestnuts a gust of wind hit us in the back, so hard we nearly fell over backward, as if the wind wanted to trip us up from behind, to knock us flat with one stroke of its huge but affectionate paw. Under the first large tree trunks, in the pitch darkness, Mr. Václav Kořínek gathered us around him, suddenly we all joined in an embrace, we stood around an old tree trunk holding each other by the shoulders and as the branches scraped together moaning and groaning in the treetops, Mr. Kořínek said to us … Nowadays figures and statistics are all that count, and people are much better off than in the old days. At the beginning of the century the Elbe Daily wrote … The majority of laborers who work out of town have a chunk of bread and a sip of coffee, or a shot of brandy, as their midday meal, because it isn’t possible to bring other cooked food from home and only rarely are their wives or children allowed to bring them lunch … so much for the Elbe Daily … Mr. Otokar Rykr added, with a smile … In my youth ladies’ hats varied from cartwheel-sized rounds, topped with botanical gardens and bird sanctuaries, to pert little bonnets. Voluminous hats were held in place by an eight-inch metal pin, often with an elaborate pin-head. The sharp, protruding tips of these hatpins could be extremely dangerous to those in the vicinity, particularly in a crowd, where many a gentleman was poked in the face by the hatpin of his oblivious lady friend. A fierce battle was waged against these dangerous instruments, until finally a police regulation was enacted that required all hatpin tips be covered with a protective sheath … said Mr. Rykr, witness to old times, and he smiled, and one after another we smiled too, as if this memory had made us young again. But the wind rose and blew through the crowns of the old chestnut trees, the dry branches creaked and groaned and then fell to the ground and the dry wood smashed to pieces like black chandeliers against a granite floor …