Goya's Glass (19 page)

At least you, Božena, at least you have friends with whom you can share your secrets. But I, what have I got?

I’ve got you. You are the only one who will listen to me. What a twist of fate! And then there is Herr von Päumann, he’s interested in me as well, he needs me too. I shall now write to the police and tell them about your slipups and your sins both great and small. The police will keep you under surveillance, they will persecute you, they will harm you. Yes, that is what they will do. But, even so, you will have lived better than I have; your life will always be more meaningful than mine.

Do not cease to watch N
ě
mcová’s every step, and every meeting.”

“With scientists and men of letters too?”

“Naturally!”

“She has many admirers . . .”

“Her readers and literary admirers do not interest me at all; they are a shameless crowd and a bunch of idiots, that’s what they are, to admire a woman who writes in Czech. Czech, a dead language!”

“Do you think so, Herr von Päumann?”

“I most certainly do, and if it hasn’t died off altogether, we will take the necessary measures to make sure it does so soon. You would not, surely, be comparing Czech to the greatness of the German language?”

“
Jawohl
, Herr von Päumann,
natürlich.
Without a doubt. Now, then, is there anybody else I have to keep an eye on?”

“You have talked of her admirers. Is it possible that she has any lovers?”

“
Bitte?
”

“Do you know anything about this writer’s possible lovers?”

“Well, I’m not altogether sure. Even though . . . I would say . . . ”

“You must clear up this doubt. It is essential. Quickly.”

“You know . . . In fact, I . . . ”

“Auf Wiedersehen, Fräulein.”

N
ě
mcová has friends who are important scientists. She has close female friends who are ladies from rich and influential families, and who knows if some of these people might not also be lovers of hers. And with all of them she is scheming against the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Very well. People must either be coddled or thoroughly annihilated. They would take revenge if only slightly wounded, but would be unable to do so at all if wounded seriously, which is why the wound that we inflict on a person must be of the sort that prevents him from taking revenge. That’s what Machiavelli said. Accordingly, we shall put an end to N
ě
mcová’s friendships. She will have no more financial backers, nobody to give her enough change to buy a loaf of bread. Her lovers, if she has any, will abandon her. Her female friends will want nothing further to do with her. You have underestimated us, my dear. In
fact, we don’t have to do anything except have the police keep a protective eye on you. We don’t have to lift so much as a little finger and your Czechs will end up helping us achieve our goals, the same Czechs for whom you always sacrifice yourself. Yes, the Czechs, those cowardly people! Nobody will be left, only this informer, she’ll be there for you! And for us, naturally. To achieve final victory, one must be implacable, that was Napoleon’s motto.

What a disagreeable creature, that Fräulein Zaleski. Had she been born in another era or into another family, she would not need to earn her living as a spy, and could dedicate herself entirely to culture and to writing, like N
ě
mcová. But she was born into a nation without a future, into an impoverished family. You only have to look at her, a glance even. A horrible sight. Like watching an insect squirming in a cobweb.

Why does she always blink nervously, look away, and shiver all over whenever she hears the word “lover?” It can’t just be envy. Clearly, she must be planning something.

I should get rid of her as soon as I can. Misfortune is as contagious as cholera.

The doctor is late. It is a full half hour since the appointed time. She had taken off her clothes, then put them back on again, and is now on the lookout for him, her forehead resting against the windowpane. Even the milk and the post have arrived. On the street there is a boy looking up at her window, as if he were searching for someone. He is carrying some sky-blue object, like a bunch of forget-me-nots, or a shawl given to him by a lady
breathless from dancing at a society ball. That sky-blue paper in his hand troubles her. Yes, the boy enters her house, climbs the staircase, knocks at the door.

“Good morning. I am to give you this.”

She invites him in, but the boy doesn’t have time. He is already running down the stairs and she will never know who . . . what . . .

The blue envelope burns her fingers as if it were a lit match. She passes it from one hand to the other before placing it on the table.

She picks it up firmly and goes out, to throw it into the Vltava. She is in a hurry to get rid of it. She knows only too well what is in it. A message: the treatment is over. And a cold wish: stay healthy. Instead of a signature, two initials: H.J. They are so clear, as if printed in a cloud, with calligraphical ornamentation at the end. She is standing on a bridge, and inside her who knows what awakens . . . who knows what kind of animal. Yes, an animal that stretches its neck out of curiosity and whose paws reach for the letter. She doesn’t want to give it to the beast, but it grabs the envelope so fast that she doesn’t have time to protest. It removes a sheet of paper out of the envelope: the initials H.J. are the first thing she notices. The beast takes the sheet of paper in its claws, unfolds it, and against her will her eyes run over the lines. When she has finished reading, the beast looks at her sarcastically, as if to say: Can’t you see, you fool! It yawns, lazily stretches its limbs, and returns to its lair inside her.

She didn’t understand what she was reading, ignorant of the meaning of those long letters that leaned off to the left like
cornstalks bent hard by a strong wind. But suddenly her surroundings lit up and she started to laugh. A few rays of sunlight made their way through the dense clouds, spreading light onto the golden tips of the bell towers and the Gothic steeples, among which she liked so much to fly in the company of the ancient sage. The leaves of the trees brightened with gold and purple, their dead flowers blossomed forth once more, giving off a sweet scent. Out from among the flowers stepped trumpeters, holding up their instruments: pah-pa-rah, pah-pa-rah! she heard. Between the snapping of the flags and the thunder of the trumpets, she could hear these words: I’ll be back . . . I’m going to the village to care for someone who is dying . . . how I look forward to seeing you again . . . an unusual, extraordinary woman . . .

Darkness had fallen some time ago and she went back home. Without thinking anything, she made dinner, patted her children’s heads, and quickly closed the door of her room behind her. Her husband was grumbling about something on the other side, but she couldn’t hear him because in the middle of the room, surrounded by Bengal lights, there was the flute player leading a train of followers. She sat at the table with a cup of tea and picked up her pencil.

She wrote nothing, not that evening, nor the day after. She took all kinds of old clothes out of the cupboard, tried them on in front of the mirror, which was too small to see herself full length in, and started to mend them. She decorated her hats with new ribbons and paid special attention to the undergarments, to which she added lace, both new as well as some that was still serviceable from old blouses. On the table she placed
the garnet necklace, inherited from her grandmother, and the earrings that were a gift from the Duchess von Sagan. After a few days, when she was once more able to write, she would get up from time to time, look at herself in the mirror, and hold the jewels next to her face. She did not watch herself with her own eyes but with a masculine perspective. Her eyes were as lively as they were when she was little Miss Betty, and the mirror offered her the face of a beautiful and resplendent young woman.

A week went by, then another, then a third one. She spent whole nights writing, and when daylight spoiled her concentration, she stretched out on the sofa and took a nap. After which she prepared breakfast. She had fallen in love with a strong blend of black tea, taken with a little sugar.

To write a report on Božena’s lovers. On the prefect’s lips, the word smelled like a tiny, poorly ventilated room. For me, this word is beautiful. In themselves, words mean nothing; meaning is given to them by one’s own experience.

The first lover was Celestial. He showed her the way. In a professional sense, of course, but also in another way. He accompanied her through Šárka, and Betty, the forsaken dreamer, turned herself into a lady who knows what she wants, into a writer with talent and discerning of admiration. And into a passionate woman. Later came her friendship with young Doctor
Č
ejka. And with Ivan, that man from Brno . . .

Yes, Ivan. I remember a pretty story that Božena once told me a pretty story about a very special night that she had spent
with a man, with a lover, in the mountains. I would give my entire life for a night like that. But she is even admired by Ivan’s friends, Klácel and Hanuš. Both of them are jealous. I saw one of the scenes Hanuš made; he gasped, red-faced, and kicked the walls and the furniture with almost as much fury as Božena’s husband does. On another occasion I saw Hanuš, that ultrasensitive man, had puffy red eyes, just like me when I can’t sleep at night and cannot cope with the sadness of my useless existence.

Božena, I could ruin you, that is to say, your dreams, like Vítek when he cut down the willow tree! But I’m not going to do it, there’s no need. The police will take care of it.

You also received many passionate letters, often from men who you didn’t think much of. Not long ago, your husband showed me one of them. I had to make an effort not to burst out laughing when I saw the veins in his neck popping and those feet of his in worn-out house slippers. When he gave the wall a good kick he yelled ow ow ow ow! like a piglet and grabbed his big toe. I can imagine the scene he must have made with you when he found the letter. He reckons that that graceless letter was from one of your doctors, from Lambl, when in fact it was the work of that dolt from the beer factory who you keep at a distance. Lambl was a bright spot among the men with whom you became intimate, Božena. Were you aware of that? I suppose not, because even though you liked him, you didn’t feel the same passion for him that you did for some of the others who treated you badly.

Lambl helped and defended you. He invited you to meet his mother and then you went almost every day to their home on
Saint Francis Quay and read aloud to them from your recent work: Slovak folktales;
At the Castle, At the Village,
a novel of which even George Sand, whom you admire so much, would have been proud.

Lambl clung to you more and more tightly while another man entered your life, the young doctor who is looking after you now, the one with the Oriental air about him. Johanna and Sophie were jealous of your relationship with Lambl; I envy you your new friend, though I do not envy you.

One morning, he was at the door. His eyes shone, his mouth was laughing. He said: “Strong as life, sweet as love, bitter as death and oblivion. What is it?”

She and Vít
ě
zka, who had opened the door, were having a cup of tea. She sat at a low table made from a drawer. She had wrapped herself in a dark blue velvet dressing gown tied with a wide sash. She wore her hair loose.

“What is it? Beautiful words, a poem. But I can’t guess the answer.”

“It’s tea. It has to be that way, according to an Arabic proverb. I would have a cup of it with you ladies, if you would allow me to do so.”

“Well, I . . . I’m going to fix my hair; I look a fright.”

“Don’t go anywhere. Yes, it’s true you look a fright. A beautiful one. Too beautiful.”

Božena didn’t know how to react. She shook her head. How he’s changed! Is it him? What’s happened to him?

Suddenly the animal lurking inside her emerged, bristling.

“Do have a cup of tea, friend. My friend Vít
ě
zka will keep you company,” she told him, icily. “Unfortunately, I have to go. I’m late.”

He was bewildered.

“I was joking. If you want to fix your hair, please do so. If you want to tidy yourself up, tidy yourself up, and I will happily wait for you. I have come back several days early, just for you,”

The strange beast opened its mouth to bite.

“I cannot possibly stay. I have a meeting with my publisher. But Vít
ě
zka is excellent company.”

No, those words were not hers. That wasn’t she.

But it wasn’t he, either.

While she changed clothes and combed her hair restlessly, the beast still squirmed.

Later, hurrying along the street as fast as she could go, as if fleeing from something, she felt a touch of satisfaction blended in with her desperation. But this satisfied sense of pride grew weaker and weaker, until it disappeared altogether, and despair occupied all the available space on the throne.

Guten Tag
, Fräulein Zaleski. Do you know who Father Štulc is?”

“Of course. The priest who writes patriotic verse with a strong Catholic bent.”

“What are his verses like?”

“Dull, superficial, rhetorical.”

“Who does this priest see?”

“I know, above all, who he can’t stand: Fri
č
and the revolutionary’s circle of young literati
.
”

“That is to say, the same circle that is also frequented by N
ě
mcová, even though she is older?”

“That’s right. Father Štulc has admonished her bitterly.”

“What is there between them, exactly? All Prague is talking about it, but it seems that nobody can say for sure what’s going on.”

“Somebody showed Father Štulc one of N
ě
mcová’s letters, addressed to one of the members of their circle.”

“Who?”

“To Mr. Jurenka, a student of medicine.”

“Do you know what was in the letter?”

“I have made a copy. It is a love letter.”