Harlequin's Millions

by Bohumil Hrabal

  6

  WHEN 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 Špork’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 whi
ch 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. Baruška 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 František 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 Bolenová, sailing along the Elbe day and night with her gun and scythe by her side. Mr. Václav Kořínek sighed sadly … I was born on the Velký Val, in the servants’ quarters of number two hundred forty-seven, home of the Zedrich family. My grandfather was a coachman for the Zedrichs and an enthusiastic member of the Society of Ex-Servicemen, more commonly known as war veterans. He had served nine years with the Uhlans … My father often told me about him. There was one story I’ll never forget … It must’ve been sometime after the twenty-fourth of June eighteen-hundred-and-fifty-nine, when the Austrian army had retreated to Verona after their defeat at the Battle of Solferino, there, in the stifling heat, by a stream, a soldier was standing guard. Not a leaf was stirring and the air shimmered with heat. The soldier had been standing there thinking how nice it would be to take a cool dip in the stream. He looked around, every which way, then quick as a wink he stripped off his clothes and ran into the water. He was splashing about to his heart’s content when suddenly he heard the whinnying of horses. He ran back out of the water, to his pile of clothes, but saw that a cavalcade of officers was already riding down the hillside. There was no time to get dressed. The soldier grabbed his shako, cartridge box and gun, and then, naked as the day he was born, he saluted the escort of none other than Commander-in-Chief Count Gyulai. The Count halted, followed by his entire retinue, and everyone stared in amazement at the stark-naked soldier. They saw at once that the sentry had been swimming, and in wartime this was punishable by death. The commander thought for a moment, then said … This man shall be pardoned, for he didn’t lose his head and the first thing he did was reach for his gun … Bitterly, the witness to old times Mr. Kořínek finished telling his story, during which he had continually smoothed down his grayish hair, which sprang right back up again, the rain drummed against the windowpanes and leaves flew through the air and clung to the windows, to the statues, when I’d walked through the castle park all the wet statues had been covered with leaves too, aspen and red beech, a gentle, steady wind was now blowing in from the south, it came from somewhere in Libya, this gentle breeze, but brought with it feelings of anxiety and deep depression, the barometer had dropped so low that the nurses had been on their feet all night long bringi
ng around sedatives and giving injections, and on the four beds in Countess Špork’s bedroom, under a net, lay four old women who, for the past ten years, had been affected by every change in atmospheric pressure, but who now, ever since that balmy foehn had begun blowing in from Libya, felt such pain in their souls that they had lost the will to live. The whole castle even seemed slightly drunk to me, some of the pensioners preferred not to get out of bed at all, the more courageous among them staggered down the corridors, they tottered along, clinging to the walls and railings, the wind blew through the castle and made Mr. Kořínek’s hair stand straight up, the wind came in gusts, sometimes it seemed to die down, but then all of a sudden it rose again and blew steadily across the landscape or forced its way through the roof and through the weather stripping along the windows and doors, the nylon curtains billowed, as if the invisible hands of bridesmaids were lifting the edges of a bride’s train as they carried it into the church in time to the “Wedding March” … The three witnesses to old times now watched as the wind ruffled the edges of the children’s smocks and crocheted bibs on the tables, and all the baby things suddenly rose, as if there were a vacuum cleaner somewhere on the ceiling drawing them upward, the lacework and the cords that held together the children’s mittens rose up and did a ludicrous little puppet show on the tables before settling back down again, and Mr. Otokar Rykr spoke … The foehn blows in from Austria and Bavaria, I daresay there are many people in Vienna and Munich who can’t endure that steady wind and commit suicide, it is this same foehn that blows through South Moravia, as in the old folk song “The Wind Blows in from Buchlov” … In the evening the vintner is merry and in the morning he has hung himself, because just like so many others he couldn’t endure the persistent breeze … The old witness Karel Výborný now spoke … This same wind carries fine sand from the Libyan deserts to this region, the wind is most active in areas with a predominance of limestone in the ground. Munich, for example, is all limestone, it lies in an enormous limestone basin, and this wind blows in May, then in October, and again in February, the whole city and in fact the whole region is driven to drink, in May all the breweries tap casks of Maibock, in October the Bavarians defend themselves against the foehn by guzzling beer and dancing till dawn, for an entire week, and in February they stoke up huge stoves in tents and thousands of people celebrate Fasching, but actually they’re only filling themselves with beer so they don’t stick their head in the oven. The only real defense against the foehn is to flee to an area with granite mountains and hills. Regensburg … Mr. Výborný finished telling his story, and Mr. Kořínek smoothed his unruly hair with both hands and said … That foehn will be the death of me yet! It makes me feel miserable, like I’ve been out night after night drinking boilermakers and smoking Old Virginia cheroots. And not only does your whole body hurt after a foehn, but your soul too. My heart pounds in my throat and I’m never sure I’ll make it through the night. By now I know that if I check the barometer every morning, I can tell by the air pressure how I’m going to feel that day. But the worst is when it rains and the barometer shows good weather. When two frontal systems collide … I know that on that day all the hospitals in Prague, and throughout the country, will have, or maybe already do have, a high mortality rate. And the next day you read the obituaries. In Catalonia they call this wind, which in that part of the world blows from the Balearic Islands, the Llevant, it blows across the land for a whole week and even young people living on secluded farms can’t stand the pressure on their souls and go crazy or hang themselves from a tree. It’s customary there to chop them down tree and all. Last year I got a letter, a friend of mine had gone to inspect the body of a young girl who had hanged herself, he arrived to find a grieving mother, whom he tried to comfort … You’ve still got two other daughters! But the rest of the family, who had just chopped down the big tree, which had crashed to the ground with the dead girl still hanging from its branches, all those relatives wailed, along with the mother … Did she have to go and hang herself from our very best apple tree, which gave us twenty baskets of Reinettes a year?… Said Mr. Kořínek, and his hair stood straight up with disgust, just like the clothes on the little table under the sign on the wall, How do our ladies pass the time?, where all the lovingly displayed baby clothes sprang up and bristled with disgust at the sultry breeze wafting through Count Špork’s castle, the warm, dry gusts that blew across the Alps all the way from Libya. In the kitchen a loud gong sounded, bong, bong, bong, bong. It was dinnertime, but along the corridors you could see that more than half the pensioners had stayed in bed, because usually most of them would be standing outside the door of the Count’s former banquet hall half an hour before dinner, the pensioners would read the menu over and over again, all that reading made them hungrier and hungrier, they tortured themselves with the thought that they might only get a very small portion, or that their meat would be tough, for half an hour they stood outside the closed doors of the dining hall debating hotly and telling each other about their favorite dishes, which their mothers had prepared for them long ago, dishes they could never forget, they told each other about the banquets and hog killings, the geese that were roasted for the Feast of Saint Martin, Christmas and Easter dishes they couldn’t forget to this day … They told each other all this outside the closed doors of the dining hall, so they wouldn’t have to think about how ravenously hungry they were. But today, for the second day in a row, the foehn was blowing, for the second day in a row the doors to the dining hall were open wide and now and then a dejected pensioner would wander in, sigh deeply and instead of just sitting down, he’d slump into his chair and bump his elbow on the plate, which clinked against the silverware …