Goya's Glass (15 page)

Now they have summoned me to the prefecture. What a pity I can’t finish what I’m writing. What does that bore von Päumann want from me this time?

On the second day she realized she had to rein in her feelings and, when welcoming the doctor in and when bidding him farewell, she gave him her hand in a gesture that could only be interpreted as forthright and friendly.

In the evening, when thinking everything over, she jotted in her notebook: “What powerful and unfathomable charm, I ask myself, can be hidden within a person who with a simple look, a simple handshake, can strip me of all strength, whose tone of
voice can make me flutter like a reed in the wind? Why does the heart remain calm when a friend presses my hand, while the handshake of another man injects fire into my veins? Today I have experienced the power of such magic.”

No matter what the cost, the prefect wants to uncover the conspiracy that he believes Božena is hatching, or at least, participating in. Von Päumann doesn’t strike me as feeble minded, but a conspiracy? Božena, a conspirator? For the lousy handful of pennies they pay me now I have to invent a detective novel, preferably one with a mysterious murder in it. Oh, I’m getting fed up with old man von Päumann.

Right away, Herr von Päumann. Let me catch my breath, I tired myself out climbing the prefecture stairs. All right, let us begin. Forgive this cough of mine, you see, I . . . The other day I visited Božena at her home near Emmaus church and it was raining a little. The lamplighter was lighting the blue flames of the streetlamps and on the far side of the Vltava numerous yellow lights flickered like dozens of illuminated cat eyes. Not all cat eyes flicker though, do they? You don’t know either? Excuse me, I am dithering on so. The N
ě
mec family was sitting in the kitchen, which they also use as a dining room and lounge. They had just finished dinner. Božena’s husband was reading the newspaper and puffing on his pipe, comfortably ensconced in a chair; her daughter was playing Schubert’s
Impromptus
on the
piano (an old upright piano which the previous tenant had left behind); and the boys were looking for certain places on a map of the world. Božena was sitting at the table with her back to the others, her head bent a little to the left, and she was writing. Now and again, she turned to the boys to tell them where to find such and such a place on the map. It was one of those evenings that conjure up an idyllic image of an old, old world that has now ceased to exist.

“I was sitting on the sofa, reading the manuscript of Božena’s latest short story. Suddenly I noticed that N
ě
mec puffed on his pipe ever faster and more violently. I watched him out of the corner of my eye; he held up his newspaper not with calm hands but with clenched fists. He was hiding behind the
Daily Prague
, but I thought I could see how his pale face concealed an inner fury. His daughter, Dora, was playing something by Haydn, then fumbled and had to start again. I glanced sideways at her; she was biting her lower lip, hard, looking first at her father with fear and then at her mother with eyes of silk, as if she wished to protect her. The boys plied their mother with questions about Duchess von Sagan; Karel was to go to Germany, to the castle of the duchess, as a gardener’s apprentice. Božena answered them impatiently, because they kept on interrupting her work. In the end, she recommended they put such questions to their father, who could tell them not only where the Sagan family estate was, but also all the different places in Hungary where he’d worked during his years of forced exile. The brothers turned to their father and looked at him timidly; one shrugged his shoulders, the other signalled that they should drop the matter. They went
silent. The newspaper in N
ě
mec’s hands trembled visibly. Dora lost her concentration altogether and stopped playing. Her mother sat up, glanced at the wall, and began to put her books and papers in order. She stood up. One of the boys went to her and the other followed like a shadow. I realized that there was no point in staying and got ready to leave. N
ě
mec’s slippers were so worn out that his bare feet must have been touching the floor.

“Whack! I nearly fell over. What a blow! By the time I’d recovered, N
ě
mec had left, slamming the door. The first bang had been a slam of his fist on the table where Božena sat tidying up her notes. Still frightened, I looked at the others. Dora appeared relieved, the boys smiled. Božena got up and headed out of the room. I followed her.”

“So Mrs. N
ě
mcová’s marriage is an unhappy one is it not, Fraülein Zaleski?”

“I have simply described her married life. That conclusion is your own, Herr von Päumann.”

During the next curative session, the doctor seemed cold and reserved. She thought he was afraid that someone might interrupt their session, her husband or the children. Everybody had been warned not to enter the apartment so as not to interrupt the cure. But it dawned on her that the doctor’s expression was one of fear, of concern. The doctor opened the curtains with a brusque movement, as he’d done on their first day. A milky light filled the room and she had the feeling she was sitting on
a block of ice, in nothing but her underwear, drifting off toward the unknown. She tried to make the cold go away, putting all her energy into inventing questions for the doctor about the purpose of his instruments, about the countries he’d visited, but he answered only in a brief, clipped fashion. He left some of her questions unanswered.

“When that outburst was over, Herr von Päumann, Božena and I sat together in the half-shadow of her room. It was cold. But that smell of decomposing leaves, or of undergrowth after the rain, mmmm! Božena sighed with relief. She let herself go, and complained about her publisher, Mr. Pospíšil, a greedy man, a real stuffed shirt, who had released Božena’s novel,
The Grandmother,
in installments instead of turning it into an attractive book; and the fee he paid her, she said, was so little she couldn’t even buy winter clothes for the children. To change the subject and get the information I wanted out of her, I asked which of her jewels were the most beautiful.

“She opened a small box. Against the sky blue velvet, a pair of long earrings glimmered—Božena’s wedding present from Duchess von Sagan. Then Božena removed the inner layer to reveal the bottom section, in which lay a smaller box made of wood. When she opened it, a necklace glittered before my eyes: five rows of garnet stones, linked by a silver coin with the portraits of the Emperor Josef and the Empress Marie Therese. Božena told me that in the little apartment in Ratibo
ř
ice far from Prague where she lived with her parents, brothers, and
sisters, they were accompanied for a few years by their grandmother. This elderly lady possessed just a single dress for all the days of the week and one other for Sundays. Her only treasure was a painted trunk. Betty—this was Božena’s name back then, Betty; she did not adopt Božena, her
nom de plume
, until she arrived in Prague many years later—liked to look at the trunk with the red flowers painted on it. Her grandmother kept papers and dried medicinal herbs in it, and right at the bottom was this little wooden box, and inside this, a garnet necklace.

“‘Grandmother, why don’t you ever put this necklace on?’ Betty asked.

“‘I wore it while Ji
ř
í, your grandfather, was alive. Do you like it? Well then, do you know what, little girl? When I die, the garnet necklace will be yours. Yes, I want you, my eldest granddaughter, to wear it. My garnet stones will protect you from all sorts of evil. If you ever get rid of it, you’ll regret it. Remember, pretty one, if you want to make something of your life, always make sure you keep these garnet stones.’

“Božena remembered it clearly. She said that once at Christmas she didn’t have anything to give her children to eat, and was obliged to pawn a gold chain and a ring in order to buy a few apples, eggs to make a sponge cake, walnuts, and a little tea. But she would never part with her grandmother’s necklace, no matter what.

“Božena confessed to me then that as a young girl she used to laugh at her grandmother’s hopelessly old-fashioned clothes, her opinions, and her habit of speaking pure Czech, without a trace of German in it. Her grandmother taught her the names of
the trees and plants in Czech, told her folktales. Betty asked her grandmother to tell her these stories at bedtime. The more often Betty heard a tale, the more she would like it.”

Her next medical treatment continued to be as cold and mechanical as that of the day before. Although the palms of his hands woke up previously unknown desires in her, while his fingers made her delirious with pleasure, the doctor’s expression remained abstracted, distant. He touched her belly and she wanted to look him in the eye. She half-opened her eyes: he wasn’t looking at her. As his fingers stroked her body, his eyes focused on something far away, searching for the white light of day, staring at the far side of the river.

Fräulein Zaleski, do you know anything about . . . No! I’m not talking about the novel
The Grandmother.
You’ve written us a whole epic poem about this grandmother of hers and I’m fed up with that subject. Do me the favor of not interrupting me from now on. All right? I believe I’ve been too patient with you. Do you know Václav Fri
č
personally?”

“
Nein
, Herr von Päumann, not personally.”

“What do you mean, no! That is a great mistake! Fri
č
is one of the worst enemies of our monarchy, of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and of our institutions. He is one of the great revolutionaries who set off the 1848 revolution! N
ě
mcová invites him to her home almost every day.”

“Yes, Herr von Päumann! At Božena N
ě
mcová’s I read some of his writings, all of them full of revolutionary fervor.”

“This man has been released from prison and has had the impertinence to start up a magazine to which the most ardent revolutionary leaders of the Czech movement are supposed to contribute. What do you know about this?”

“I have been able to find out that, indeed, N
ě
mcová is preparing her contribution to this publication. Fri
č
and his group are all good friends of hers. She told me once that she shares her frugal teas with them and laughed, saying that, while they converse, she darns their worn-out underwear.”

“Prague society cannot accept such insolence.”

“Mrs Božena is so shameless that the bad things people say are of no importance to her.”

“What about her husband?”

“I don’t know.”

“Find out if that impudent man Fri
č
is a frequent visitor even when Mrs. Božena is not at home. He may be plotting something with her husband. Auf Wiedersehen, Fräulein.”

“Herr von Päumann . . .”

“
Bitte?
Do you have some information for me?”

“I have started to work on . . .”

“On what?”

“You once broached the subject of Božena’s lovers. So I . . . I’ve started to work on . . .”

“Then by all means get on with it. But please do leave right now, for heaven’s sake!”

“Do you know,” the doctor said unexpectedly in a changed voice, as he put his medical instruments in his case and she buttoned up her blouse. “You once asked me about my travels. Deep down, I don’t really believe in travel as a way of discovering things. A certain someone has written words that show I am not mistaken: ‘You can know the whole world without leaving your own home. This is why the wise man knows without having travelled, understands without having seen.’ Do you follow me?”

“Perfectly. What is more, I am in complete agreement. In the evening, when I sit down under the yellow light of this oil lamp, there appear worlds I have never seen. Then I do no more than describe that which I imagine, and from this, novels, stories and, above all, folktales are born. People ask me how I know those immense seas, those cliffs, and sweet fruits from the garden of delights. I cannot answer them because I have not seen these things; or rather I have, but here, in my room. It is under this oil lamp that the branches of the most unusual-looking trees sway and let fall multicolored flowers.”

“Yes, I understand you. The wise man whose words I have just quoted, also said: ‘If you wish to possess the whole world, own nothing. If you are always busy, you will not take pleasure in the world.’”

“I feel that way, too. I own only the things you see around me, those books on the shelf, the table, and the oil lamp, and I take most pleasure in the world when I am inventing it.” She broke off, and then added: “Who was the wise man that wrote those magnificent sentences, or rather those marvellous verses?”

“Legend has it that he was a librarian, whose name in his
mother tongue means ‘old master.’ At the end of his life, he reached the conclusion that mankind was a lost cause. So he took his yak—”

“Yak? Is that an animal?”

“Yes, it’s a kind of mountain bison. And with it he headed off into the wild and savage world of nature, where reason and logic reign. At the peak of a mountain gorge he decided to record his thoughts on a piece of paper. He lived roughly five centuries before Christ.”