10
“HARLEQUIN’S MILLIONS” BECAME THE RETIREMENT home theme song, perhaps because the doctor in residence, an old man himself, nearly eighty, was also passionate about the golden days, he adored “Harlequin’s Millions,” the tune was like therapy for him, sometimes when he was examining pensioners in his office, he drifted away, stopped the examination, once when he had placed that instrument for listening to my heart against my back, he drifted away on the sugary tones of “Harlequin’s Millions,” then suddenly said, after putting the rubber tubes in his ears … Hello, this is Dr. Secký, who’s this? The doctor had not only been retired for some time now, it was said that he suffered from as many illnesses as the whole retirement home put together, so once a year, when he didn’t know what else to do with himself, he went to a spa. On those occasions he was relieved by young Dr. Holoubek, who had curly hair and looked like Alexander the Great, so most of the old women were in love with him, you could tell, they put on their best dresses, every day they looked forward to being lucky enough to run into the young doctor, which was why they went to the little town to get their hair done, colored their cheeks with rouge and did their best to look artistic when sitting on the benches and armchairs, even those who had trouble walking felt, in Dr. Holoubek’s presence, compelled to walk as if there was nothing the matter with them. Dr. Holoubek won over the men by never asking about their illness, but about how much they smoked and how much they drank. And when a smoker told him truthfully that he smoked twenty cigarettes a day, the doctor replied enthusiastically that he himself smoked thirty, but that it would be wise if the pensioner tried to cut down to fifteen … And then the pensioner left his office feeling better than ever, went on smoking to his heart’s content and was glad Dr. Holoubek was such a fine physician. But his biggest fans were the drinkers. Whenever a drinker entered his office, the doctor knew right away what sort of man he was and said, before the fellow could utter a word … So, you drink six pints a day! And the pensioner would say he drank seven. That will never do, Dr. Holoubek exclaimed, I want you to cut back to five pints a day, followed by two large shots of hard liquor, preferably Russian vodka, but if you’re low on funds, try Czech vodka from Haná, though personally I’d recommend Prostějov rye, I myself drink a pint a day, but best of all, advised Dr. Holoubek, is a sour pickle dipped in rum, every morning, instead of breakfast. And he told everyone that the whole question of sickness or health was predetermined by genes, how many years a person would live was decided right there in his mother’s body, and smoking and drinking had no influence on this whatsoever, because a man who is genetically programmed to die at the age of forty will die at the age of forty, even if he doesn’t drink or smoke, while another man could smoke and drink as much as his budget would allow and still live to be seventy-eight. Old Dr. Secký smoked so much that no one ever saw him without a lit cigarette, even when he was writing out prescriptions, he was always smoking, his cigarette dangled from the right-hand corner of his mouth, so that his glasses, the right lens, had become completely brown from the smoke, the old doctor didn’t even have a cigarette case, he kept his cigarettes in his briefcase, it was his own private tobacco shop, people said he was so fond of smoking that he set his alarm clock for four in the morning so he could light a cigarette, and from that moment on he smoked one after another, he never coughed and was nearly eighty but alive and kicking, he had his hair died chestnut, and in his office he always had two cigarettes, one between his fingers and one burning on the nickel-plated display case where he kept his medicines. And so while the old doctor was taking the waters at Marienbad, Dr. Holoubek was giving moral support to all the inmates of the retirement home, and immediately you saw the men walking around looking more cheerful, they bought hip flasks and started each day with a large swig of Prostějov rye, the whole castle smelled of that rye from Prostějov, a pleasant fennel scent, and the women rubbed their cheeks early each morning with crème royal, powdered themselves, sprinkled themselves with perfume, even wore scented nightclothes, so that all the corridors smelled even more strongly of perfume and makeup, the whole castle smelled like a dressing room in a theater, and all the pensioners looked forward to the possibility that they might be lucky enough to run into Dr. Holoubek, that he would return their greetings gratefully, give them a courteous bow, because the old doctor, even though he smoked, could never stand it when one of the pensioners smoked in the castle corridors, and even though the old doctor himself drank, he would start yelling if a pensioner smelled of beer or gin, threatening to send the pensioner straight back to wherever he’d come from, back home as punishment … And Dr. Holoubek had another passion, he loved classical music, he was so crazy about it that he simply had to talk about it all the time, because he wanted to share that beauty with the rest of the world. One afternoon he invited all classical music buffs to come to the dining hall, he had brought along a phonograph and spoke in a voice filled with emotion … Friends, today I’d like to transport you all to the realm of sound, allow me to play you a recording of Claudio Arrau performing Liszt’s Liebeslied … while I read to you from the work of the poet Freiligrath … and he placed the needle on the record and Claudio Arrau began playing the love song, a nostalgic melody, each finger pressing the keys with great emphasis, Dr. Holoubek read aloud, in a soft voice … O love, as long as love you can, O love, as long as love you may, The time will come, the time will come, When you will stand at the grave and mourn … And most of the old women were so moved that they began humming this song of love, softly, and then their gentle humming, their choral lament, grew louder and stronger, and I too was deeply moved, because like me probably most of the old women had specified in their last will and testament that this Song of Love be their last song, the song that would be played as their coffin was being lowered into the grave or slid slowly into the cremation oven … Now, under the fingers of Claudio Arrau, the piano thundered through the Count’s former banquet hall and the old women and a few of the men hummed along with the love song as if it were a chorale, suddenly that last song was a High Mass, a song whose words were now replaced by a waterfall of notes, sparkling piano tones that rang out like a spring hailstorm against a tin roof and then returned to that hymnlike melody … Dr. Holoubek read out the final lines of the poet who had inspired Liszt … And guard your words with care, lest harm flow from your lips, but the loved one recoils and mourns … Mr. Otokar Rykr said to me in a low voice … In Palacký Avenue the butcher Antonín Huněk could be seen flaunting his belly and Roman nose in his shop at number one hundred fifteen, equally big-bellied was his counterpart at number fifty-one, the baker Antonín Štolba, whom you would often see, covered with flour, smoking a cigarette in the doorway of his bakery. Before Štolba the house had been occupied by the furniture maker and sexton Vambera. His pride and joy was a starling he had trained to pull a glass of water into his cage with a little winch. And in that same Palacký Avenue, above the entrance to the shop belonging to Tusar, Votava-Paljas’s son-in-law, were two half-wreaths decorated with wooden lemons and bay leaves. In the window were glass jars of pickled cucumbers, crystallized fruit, quite expensive in those days, Saint John’s bread, yellow gummies shaped like various figures, sugared pretzels, pink and white candies that tasted like soap, chocolate wafers and licorice root. At the entrance to the shop stood a herring barrel, on the counter was a vat of Russian sardines, better known as Russians ’n Onions … Dr. Holoubek was now holding up another record, and said … If I may, I’d like to play you a particular excerpt from a symphonic poem for orchestra, written by Zdeněk Fibich, you’ll hear the Czech Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by none other than Václav Neumann, the work is called At Twilight, it is an immortal love song that stirs the hearts of all who hear it and is best known simply as Poem. And the pensioners’ eyes filled with tears, they were restless with excitement, the doctor placed the needle on the record, but the Philharmonic was still playing that part of the piece in which the young Fibich is climbing the stairs to
the home of the Schulz family, the doctor lifted the needle and moved it to a different spot on the record and then sat down in the Count’s armchair, after several chords the Czech Philharmonic fell silent and when the opening notes of the love song were heard, the old women began humming along with the orchestra, Mr. Neumann the conductor undoubtedly imagined himself as the young Fibich, with his declaration of love to young Miss Shulzová, the old women and men couldn’t restrain themselves and accompanied his Poem with their heartfelt humming, because nearly all of them had stated in their will that they wanted this love song played at their funeral, either a recording or on the harmonium, the witness to old times Mr. Karel Výborný told me in a soft voice … Another curious figure in our little town was Pepík Přikryl, nicknamed the walking delicatessen, after finishing high school he trained as a waiter but only occasionally practiced this profession because he was able to make a living with his own little business, which he plied every night in the pubs. He was short and fat, he sported a voluminous belly upon which rested a large basket that was fastened around his neck with a strap. In the basket were sardines in oil, anchovies, onions, Russian sardines, pickled cauliflower, spicy gherkins and other thirst-inducing delicacies … Now the symphonic poem At Twilight was coming to an end, and just for a moment all the old women including myself were Anežka Schulzová, who had the honor of being loved by the young composer Zdeněk Fibich … The witness to old times Václav Kořínek was inspired, and said, in a scholarly fashion … On the night of Monday to Tuesday, on the twenty-sixth of August eighteen-hundred-and-ninety, the people of the little town where time stood still were rudely awakened by the loud shouting and offensive behavior of the officers of the dragoon regiment, which was taking its leave from the little town because it was being transferred to Vienna. The officers were having a party and their shouts mingled with the barking and howling of dogs and the growling of bears as they bid farewell to the townspeople. On the third of July, eighteen-hundred-and-ninety-three, the town council and the local public prosecutor were investigating the affair of the Austrian cavalry officer Count Schönborn, who was suspected of shooting at three people outside in the square after midnight from the third floor of Dr. Gruntorád’s house, because they were standing under the window of a home where a piano was being played, making a racket and throwing stones at the window. After the investigation the officer handed back the sentence, which had been written in Czech, saying he didn’t understand a word of it. Said Václav Kořínek quietly, and Dr. Holoubek placed another record on the turntable and lifted the tone arm, put in a new needle and said, in a voice trembling with emotion … In just a few moments Herbert von Karajan and his orchestra will play for you The Afternoon of a Faun, a faun is paralyzed by his love for a nymph, his body is stained with the juices of love, he lies by the sea, on the inside of his closed eyelids he projects the blissful moment of love he has just experienced, he lies there in the light of the sun, then sits up and plays a melancholy song of longing on his syrinx, a song about a rite of passage, about his first love, the surf and sunlight are filled with the whinnying, the tender caresses and the weariness that remained after the beautiful nymph was gone, he is surrounded by the elements, by sun and sea, air and earth … Mr. Václav Kořínek takes advantage of this moment to explain, in a low voice … On the night of August ninth eighteen-hundred-and-eighty-seven, Lieutenant Korb from Vienna fired his revolver out the window of his house on the square at František Jirák, who together with several of the townspeople had been outraged by a baron’s cruel abuse of his butler, shouting … A baron would never do that! But Jirák remained unharmed, because the bullet ricocheted off the front wall of Hotel Na Knížecí three feet above his head and buried itself in the cobblestones in the square. The cartridge was found by the worker Kroupa, who sent it to the governor and filed a complaint … And the symphony orchestra conducted by Herbert von Karajan began playing The Afternoon of a Faun, and truly, that symphonic poem was filled with melancholy melodies of love, Dr. Holoubek held his face in his hands and experienced the lover’s lament as if he himself were the faun, his curly hair tumbled over his fingers, the old women gazed with great compassion at that noble head, their eyes glistened and gleamed with tears, perhaps they realized for the first time that they themselves could have been such a nymph, perhaps for the first time in their lives they were pining for their lost youth, for the days when they themselves were still sensual young women and would have gladly allowed Dr. Holoubek to make the kind of love to them that they heard in the melancholy, pagan song that the faun was playing on his syrinx. I too was aroused, with my whole body I could feel the sweet misery of the faun, who probably wasn’t so young anymore either, it even occurred to me that Claude Debussy, when he wrote that piece, might have been thinking of himself, an older man, who no longer had such bizarre notions about happiness, this nymph would be the last woman to whom he’d ever make love, for he had lost all hope that he’d ever be loved as he’d been loved by the nymph who had left him, and hence his lament … I watched the old women and saw that the music seemed to be saying something about them too, somewhere in the depths of time they too had been loved, they too had experienced one last night of love, I saw that this Afternoon of a Faun moved them even more deeply than “Harlequin’s Millions,” and that they wanted nothing better than to hear, over and over again, the melancholy voice of the flute accompanied by the symphony orchestra, conducted by Herbert von Karajan, who during the recording must have felt just as intensely whatever it was that now compelled Dr. Holoubek to hold his face in his hands, his curls trembling between his fingers as if he were crying … Mr. Václav Kořínek said to me quietly … In July eighteen-hundred-and-eighty-seven the thirty-seven-year-old journeyman František Štěrba, father of five, was brought before a four-member court in Mladá Boleslav and sentenced to three months in prison and a week of fasting because he had threatened the town guard Mostbek, who had been given orders to evict Štěrba from his council house. Štěrba pleaded that he was a resident of this municipality and that it was their responsibility to find him another place to live. He wouldn’t budge, and even as they were ripping out the living room doors, the windows and the stovepipe, he waved his fist and shouted that he’d beat Mostbek black and blue, break every bone in his body, and he called him a scoundrel and a crook. Before the court he pleaded that it had been an act of desperation. Even when it stormed and hailed he had sat with his underaged children in his house without windows or doors … And The Afternoon of a Faun had finished playing, Dr. Holoubek seemed to wake up again, he lifted the needle from the record and stood there, deeply moved, overwhelmed, and looked around uncomprehendingly, the old women hung on his every word with unblinking eyes, and yes, now I could see that the doctor really was a faun and that all the women had turned into nymphs, at least for the moment, in splendid harmony, and I wished, no doubt like all those other lady pensioners, that this doctor would stay with us forever, that once a week he would teach us about classical music, in the dining hall with the huge fresco billowing across the ceiling that showed the battle of King Alexander the Great, who looked so much like Dr. Holoubek, who wiped the tears from his eyes and raised his arms as if in surrender and said … And now Herbert von Karajan will play Les préludes by Franz Liszt, you obviously need no further explanation, it’s clear to me that you can see straight into the heart of classical music, I’ll say only one thing, Les préludes is both an expression of and answer to the question … What is life? And he placed the needle on the record and, rubbing his hands together, sat down on the Count’s white chair in the middle of the hall, he crossed one leg over the other, dug his chin into his palm and listened intently, and so it happened once again that somehow, because of him, because of his brooding demeanor and fine physique, all the women in the Count’s former banquet hall immediately believed in the first few notes, the men just sat there looking puzzled, they were sorry they had let themselves be lured here, they would’ve been better off watching tele
vision or going for a beer in the little town. Perhaps if they had been initiated into the world of classical music by a young lady doctor instead of Dr. Holoubek, they would’ve been carried away too, like the old women … And that symphonic poem by Franz Liszt was truly an even more powerful, more terrifying affirmation of the feeling that life on earth could only ever be complete and beautiful if nourished by love, by the relationship between man and woman, a young woman, who loves with all her being, with her body, with everything, completely, like the statues of the young months in our park, the symphony orchestra poured out its sorrow and longing and rose and fell on waves of emotion, one after the other, the music swelled decisively and triumphantly to the declaration, Franz Liszt’s heartfelt utterance, that without love, without great love, one couldn’t survive … and that one had to fight for such love. The orchestra now thundered with all its trombones, trumpets and kettledrums, and the women sitting in their chairs threw back their heads, so that they looked headless, they gazed up at the ceiling, where the Greek armies were fighting the Persians, in the middle of the battlefield Alexander the Great, hair streaming and arms waving, led his soldiers against the foe, when the armies clashed it was as if the lances and weapons came crashing down from the ceiling, like the clashing branches of the old chestnuts along the castle road … The old men cupped their hands around their mouth and tooted along with the orchestra, which was conducted by Herbert von Karajan, and they tooted and trumpeted, they knew this part of Les préludes, and their trumpeting filled not only the dining hall but the entire castle. And I remembered that these trumpets and this passage from Les préludes, that during the Protectorate this was the theme song of the radio program that brought reports from the battlefield, where the Germans had defeated France and Poland, and the old men, who had been young in those days, were no doubt remembering that very same thing. Dr. Holoubek stood up, looked around uncomprehendingly, he was young, he undoubtedly couldn’t remember the theme song that had ushered in every Wehrmachtbericht … And suddenly the door flew open and the Sudeten German woman from Pecer burst into the dining hall, the orchestra had calmed down and the weary, conciliatory tones gave the impression that the parties had settled their differences, but then once again the trombones and horns and trumpets sounded, and the German woman from Pecer stood there, eyes shining, with a knotted tablecloth over her shoulder holding her most valuable possessions, she handed Dr. Holoubek her identity card and cried … Our boys have taken back Sudetenland, they’re marching into Pecer, permission to evacuate, sir! And Dr. Holoubek stood there and didn’t know what to say to the old woman, her eyes were still sparkling at the sound of the trombones and kettledrums and trumpets, and the whole symphony orchestra, but then the triumphant fanfare died away and once again you heard the slow, tender, dying melody that softly answered the question … What is life?, the final tones were filled with reconciliation, with lost love regained … And so the melody ended as it had begun, though in a somewhat higher sphere … And the old lady, the German woman from Pecer, suddenly looked sad, her outstretched arm, which was about to hand over the identity card, now dropped to her side, she turned around and walked, disappointed, out of the dining hall to put her most valuable possessions back in the closet and night table … And in the dining hall all eyes were wide, the unblinking eyes of the pensioners stared into the very heart of the music, which had given each of them their own answer to the question … What is life? Even the old lady from Pecer, even that tune from the Wehrmachtberichten, those weekly radio bulletins during the war, they suddenly said more about the music than you would have expected … Dr. Holoubek picked up several more gramophone records and said … Friends, the music we have heard tonight has formed such a strong bond between us that I feel we’ve come to know each other better, so now, for you and you alone, I shall play Brahms’s Violin Concerto Opus Seventy-Seven, performed first by Georg Kulenkampff and then by our very own Váša Příhoda … He placed the needle on the record and sank down into the armchair, the old women listened like countesses to the violin concerto, as played by Georg Kulenkampff, who, with the delicate thread of his violin, stitched a wistful embroidery. The witness to old times Mr. Karel Výborný wanted to say something, but Mr. Kořínek put his finger to the other man’s lips and listened attentively to the violin’s lament, three Mariáš players tiptoed into the dining hall, they were holding their cards in their hands like three fans, they sat down to listen to the violin concerto. Georg Kulenkampff had already finished playing his version, now Váša Příhoda was playing the same yet completely different Concerto Opus Seventy-Seven by Brahms, and I heard and knew that Váša Příhoda had gained such power over his listeners that it made them moan, suddenly I could see Váša Příhoda before me, just as I had seen him years before giving a concert in our little town, with piano accompaniment, he didn’t have much hair, even in those days, but his face was soulfully beautiful, in those days he was quite short and fat, but because of that he and his violin seemed to form a single entity, he played in those days with his eyes closed, so that the slenderness of his spirit might be transported through his fingers to the bow and strings and ultimately to the ears of the listeners, who were profoundly moved, in those days I was filled not only with the beauty of that concerto, but also with a sacred trembling and joy that someone could make a violin concerto look and sound so beautiful. Now, here at the retirement home, Váša Příhoda moved the listeners so deeply that they couldn’t suppress their tears and sobs. Even Dr. Holoubek couldn’t bear it any longer, he jumped up, his white coat was pulled taut, the doctor clutched at his throat, something was choking him, something that couldn’t get out, he stood there like that for several moments, the old women rose from their chairs, terrified, and threw up their hands. The doctor staggered, ran to the window and tried to push aside the nylon curtains, he wanted to open the window, but the more he tried the more entangled he became in the curtains, Váša Příhoda stopped playing for a moment and the orchestra majestically, with powerful symphonic chords, repeated the violin phrase, Dr. Holoubek tried to push the curtains aside with both hands to reach the window handle, but they wouldn’t relent, and so, with one powerful conductor-like sweep of his arm, the doctor yanked the curtains off the wall, cornice board and all, and now nothing could keep the window from flying open so that the doctor could get some air. But then all the women proceded to do exactly the same thing the doctor had done, they threw open three more windows and greedily inhaled the cool evening air. But while they were leaning out the windows, Dr. Holoubek ran into the middle of the dining hall, once again Váša Příhoda raised his bow and played the next phrase, this phrase was more than Dr. Holoubek had bargained for, it was a kind of joyous devastation … The old women formed a circle around the doctor, who in a burst of passion had pulled out a fistful of his curls, then he picked up one of the Count’s chairs, a beautiful white chair, and smashed it against the carpet, breaking its legs, I saw some of the women pulling out tufts of their bleached blond hair and throwing them into the draft from the open windows, and then they too began smashing up the Count’s white chairs, bits of wood flew everywhere, one by one the chairs toppled over, but Váša Příhoda, tenderly and dreamily, went on embroidering that sweet, delicate song of melancholy love, he seemed to be playing from a great distance, as if to wound Dr. Holoubek even more deeply, the doctor now raised his hands, he held them in the air as if in prophetic rapture, intoxication … and then started running, he ran through the corridor weeping and wailing and rushed helter-skelter down the stairs, all the old women ran after him, some failed to take the bend, skidded on their slippers, didn’t get back up, but clambered down the stairs on their hands and knees, to the vestibule, where Dr. Holoubek had already run out the front door. I hurried after the women, not to find out what the doctor was going to do, but to see something I never would have believed could happen. But the white coat was already running in through the front door and Dr. Holoubek headed back upstairs, he took two, three sta
irs at a time, careful to avoid the old women lying here and there, but now the women were following him up the stairs, their hair had come loose, they had lost their handbags, hats, their eyes were wide with ecstasy, they hurried after the doctor, who stood in the middle of the dining hall again and spread his arms wide, threw them open, but after a few more notes of the violin concerto he could no longer control himself and to the amazement of all the men grabbed one of the broken white chairs and threw it out the open window, I saw how the broken legs seemed to hover briefly in the open window with the black air in the background and how only then the chair fell into the sand of the courtyard, and the women fought each other to get hold of the next chair and tossed it out the window too, and the old men looked uncomprehendingly at the frenzied women, the witnesses to old times shook their heads, whispered to each other, the cardplayers stood up and with an angry sweep of their hands they cursed everything they saw happening in the dining hall, then walked out into the corridor to continue their game of Mariáš, Dr. Holoubek went to the phonograph, put his ear against it, listened closely to Váša Příhoda and suddenly gave a loud shriek as if Váša Příhoda’s violin bow had sailed into the dining hall and gouged out his eye, because Dr. Holoubek clapped both hands over his face and ran back out of the room, with the old women close behind him, he ran as fast as he could, stumbling over the old ladies lying here and there on the stairs and in the vestibule, he leapt over them and ran out into the courtyard, then he ran through the park, leaping over the benches and knocking them down, the old women hobbled along after him, from there it was a sprint across the meadow to the fishpond, where Dr. Holoubek came to a standstill, the old women caught up with him and looked him in the face, from the open windows of the Count’s former banquet hall you could hear the powerful chords of the symphony orchestra … and Dr. Holoubek stepped into the shallow pond, he waded in up to his knees, the old women waded in after him, Dr. Holoubek bent over and scooped up a few handfuls of cold water and splashed it on his face, the old women bent over too and scooped up a few handfuls and pressed the water to their painted faces … And the doctor was suddenly wide awake, he trudged out of the pond and walked slowly, painfully slowly back toward the courtyard, in the meadow were sheaves of hay, all of a sudden Dr. Holoubek began dancing around them, he grabbed fistfuls of hay and threw them in the air to the rhythm of his galumphing wet shoes, the old women too surrendered to the dance and threw fistfuls of hay into the air, the doctor danced like a faun, from the open windows Váša Příhoda went on playing his violin concerto, the doctor began dancing more slowly, the broken white legs of the discarded chairs gleamed in the darkness, and the old women, dancing just like the doctor, moved to the rhythm of the Count’s broken chairs, in a slow-motion bacchanal, dancing nymphs, now retired, but filled with the same glow as in the old days, when all that was beautiful and wild was granted only to beautiful youths, demigods and gods who disguised themselves as rain, so that beautiful, credulous mortals were impregnated by a spring shower. Then the moon came out, Dr. Holoubek lay in the hay and gazed up at the sky, the light from the moon was intensified by the pallid glow of the military garrison somewhere beyond the enormous oaks and mountains, the sky was tinted green and pink, it hummed and murmured with neon and electric light, in the courtyard the broken legs of the Count’s chairs shone white, through the open windows of the dining hall Váša Příhoda kept playing his story of an unhappily happy love, and now it dawned on all the old women that the reason they had been powdering and perfuming themselves all week long and had their hair permed in the little town hadn’t been for the sake of the dashing young Dr. Holoubek, but for this moment alone, when they realized that only one thing mattered in this world, and that was love, unhappy love, the kind that meant everything to every young woman, and they knew that this composer had lived through and set down his own love story, even though it had ended long ago, even though it had happened to him when he was still young, and that he had only been able to compose this piece when he, too, was old, the memory of a love that was more than the love itself … somewhere in the distance this declaration rang out, that the memory of love is always stronger. The old women had grown more serious, more beautiful because of this violin concerto, which was still pouring from the open window, the mighty orchestra once again granted Váša Příhoda a few moments’ rest and took the theme, and now the music seemed to emanate from the whole castle, from the cellar up through all the floors to the attic and beyond, the music shimmered all the way to the crowns of the old trees, to the heavens, where it suddenly stopped, and once again Váša Příhoda beseeched his listeners, and himself, with the burning expressivity of his violin, which went on articulating what Brahms considered the most beautiful thing in his world, the most essential, and that was the beautiful misery of unrequited love. And I saw those statues in the castle park, illuminated by the pallid light of our Chicago, I walked from one statue of a young woman to the next, I heard Váša Příhoda and suddenly I knew what I hadn’t known before, that all these statues of young women were filled with wistful music, that these statues were drenched with the sorrow and bliss expressed by the violin, that these sandstone statues trembled with the happiness of a love that at the same time filled them with fear … And when the concerto ended, there was silence. Dr. Holoubek’s white coat glowed beside the old women lying on their backs in the meadow, the magic of the music slowly faded, the open window and broken white legs of the Count’s chairs glowed like a reproach. Dr. Holoubek sat up, looked around and must have had a terrible fright, he stuck his fingers in his hair, got to his feet and zigzagged down the path to the retirement home, leaving behind a trail of wet footprints, the old women awoke as if from a deep sleep, they stood up and couldn’t believe how happy they felt, one after the other they tiptoed into the corridor, they stood outside Dr. Holoubek’s door, they plastered the whole door with their ears and listened closely, then they rapped their wet knuckles lightly against the door panel, but there was no sound from inside … The next day, while the carpenter was repairing and gluing the six broken legs of the Count’s chairs, Dr. Holoubek again advised the nurses to go on playing “Harlequin’s Millions,” and instead of classical music he ordered soothing drinks from the pharmacy to help the pensioners sleep, he no longer advised them to drink Russian vodka or Prostějov rye. And before they went to bed they found a variety of colorful drinks on the table in the corridor, brown and blue, green and red, yellow and purple, with bromide, without alcohol, next to each glass was the name of the pensioner and in the evening before bed every pensioner sipped his drink and dreamt of how splendid it had been, that evening of classical music, but that night no one could sleep, all night long the white coats of the nurses flitted about with soothing injections, powders and suppositories, none of which had any effect, because all the pensioners had been so aroused by the violin concerto, played first by Georg Kulenkampff and then by our very own Váša Příhoda …
Harlequin's Millions Page 9
