The Drowning Of A Goldfish (12 page)

“The mind cannot be clear if the character is corrupt,” says Saint Augustine, and that is what I believe.

Life modifies me, but I remain the same: I still think that there is a chasm between Good and Evil and even if the world ridicules me as an eccentric, I must have the courage to be what I am.

One day, while browsing through a newspaper, I come across an advertisement:

“The Institute of Russian Language and Literature invites candidates to apply. Once accepted, students may choose full-time or correspondent status.”

I turn the pages; the newspaper feels like it is burning in my hands. Obsessively, I think of nothing, but this ad.

“The Institute of Russian Language and Literature …”

What if I tried, if this time I was successful, if I took Russian, while waiting for French …?

What if I wrote to the Institute, requesting details?

I tell no one of my project.

Next day, I mail my letter at the main post office to avoid any risk of its being lost.

I wait and wait, boiling with feverish impatience. Then, one day, the reply comes. I rip open the envelope, the letter falls at my feet. I can't even calmly pick it up. I throw myself on the ground and read it, the words dancing before my eyes, twisting, turning, fading, evading me …

I try to calm myself and restore my composure.

Even though I had never dreamt of pursuing it, I begin to realize that the study of Russian has become vitally important to me.

Finally, I manage to decipher the text: all that I shall need are a high school diploma and a recommendation from school or my present employer.

I run to Vladimír's. Breathing hard, without bothering to knock, I burst into his office.

“He's in a conference,” says his secretary. “Can I help you?”

“Where is he?! I have to talk to him right away. It is about something very important.”

She stares at me with sharpened curiosity. My face is flushed. I am shaking and soaked with sweat.

Hesitantly, she reaches for the telephone, dials the number and hands me the receiver.

The telephone rings and rings, the intervals between the piercing, burrowing signals stretching to eternity. If Vladimír does not answer immediately, I shall burst into a thousand pieces.

A flat, indifferent voice meets my anxious waiting:

“I hear you, Comrade. What do you want?”

“I have to talk to Comrade Mesner, please. It is very urgent.”

Wary of scandal, she wants me to explain what it is all about. She hears an edge to my voice. Am I one of Vladimír's girlfriends maybe in trouble, a month gone?!

“Look, Comrade, you don't expect me to pull Comrade Mesner out of an important meeting, do you, especially if you won't tell me what it is about?”

I grit my teeth. I have to invent something plausible, or she will never call Vladimír to the phone.

“Well, Comrade, if you do insist. It concerns my course with the Comrade Director of the Chemička. There's a very serious problem. I'm certain that Vladimír will want to know about it.”

She sighs, not quite sure what to do.

“Well … in this case, I'll call Comrade Mesner. But I shall mention that you insisted, as he will surely be annoyed.”

The receiver pressed tightly against my ear, I wait again. Noises coming from a distance cling, clatter, and fade before they reach me. Suddenly, a sound detaches itself from the chaos. Steady, familiar, reassuring, it moves in my direction. I recognize the steps of Vladimír and nearly collapse when I hear his voice.

“Vladimír, please, I must talk to you right away! It is extremely important!”

“Well, in this case, I'll do my best to be with you as quickly as possible. Wait for me at my office and take it easy. And do remember: in the whole world there is nothing that can't be fixed.”

My letter of recommendation carries the huge stamp of the departmental committee of the Czechoslovak-Soviet Friendship in the middle, flanked on both sides with the stamps of the various institutions where I teach Russian.

Along with that, Vladimír composes a curriculum vitae for me, incorporating all the virtues of an accomplished human being of the socialist era, that would make any red angel blush for its perfection.

To Vladimír's signature, certifying that this marvel is genuine and exists in flesh and blood, are added the signatures of all the high-ranking, influential personalities of Ústí. Vladimír collected them himself and hands me the impressive document with a big smile:

“And now, we shall see if they dare not accept you!” he says, tapping me vigorously on the shoulder.

From that day on, my life becomes a public affair.

If it was required, the Chief Justice of Ústí would be ready to intervene on my behalf for the President of the Republic: the Director of the Chemička would alert the Minister of Industry; the workers would smash the faces of those university botchers if they didn't recognize my qualities; a workers' delegation is to accompany me to the exam and see to the necessary.

When I explain to them that I would feel embarrassed, that I prefer to pass the exam by my own skills and knowledge rather than by brute force, they feel disappointed but respect my point of view.

On the day of the exam, I am accompanied to the station, given flowers, candies, and nourishing sandwiches to keep up my strength.

The Institute of Russian Language and Literature is situated in a Belle Epoque building along the quays of the Vltava river, above the café Slavia, which since its beginning has been a meeting place for Czech intellectuals and artists.

The large windows of the café reflect the sunlight, which, in turn, inundates the river that flows around a cozy green island—a screen between the sharp voices of the city and the soft calm of the Malá Strana, another district in Prague, reassuringly beautiful and made to mock the ravages of time. Prague exchanges a Mona Lisa smile with the eternity of the Malá Strana, put at its disposal by the face-liftings of architects skilful in first-class aesthetic surgery.

I am dressed up in spotless white from head to toe, an impeccable picture. In one hand, I clasp a small rabbit fur purse, my other hand nestles in Father's big palm
.

My father is strong and mighty. From him emanates the discreet scent of eau de cologne, which fills the plush cab
.

The taxi stops in front of the Slavia. The driver opens the door, Father steps out and offers his hand to me. We enter the café: a gentleman with a four-year-old of elegant distinction who is determined not to appear her age
.

It is my first step into the world, but I try hard not to show it
.

My eyes riveted on Father, I diligently imitate him. I bow from right to left, I throw a little smile here and there. Solemnly, I let myself be escorted to “our” table, where Father's artist friends are already awaiting us
.

It is a big day for me. We are going to a private viewing of paintings done by one of Father's friends. I am admitted into their world as an autonomous and sovereign being, having the right to my own opinion, which will be taken into consideration and respected
—
just as theirs are
.

Father asks me what I would like to drink. I pause …

I see cups of black coffee in front of all the gentlemen; in fact, I should probably order the same, but coffee is the one thing that I dislike most, a horrible potion that I am forced to drink when I have an upset stomach. If I order it, I shall have to drink it, and it will quite ruin my day
.

Father notices my confusion, but does not know how to help, not wanting to knock me off my pedestal
.

“
No coffee for me, today. I'll have chocolate with whipped cream
—
a large cup, please
,”
I say with dignity to a very polite and amused waiter
.

I look at Father. He pinches his lips, takes out a handkerchief, and wipes his mouth. All the gentlemen-artists do the same. No one laughs
.

I have passed the test
.

I climb the bright, scarlet-carpeted staircase framed with large windows of ornamental glass, in which peacocks spread their ostentatious splendor among the mauve, lilac, and emerald irises.

The light, streaming in through the rainbow-colored glass, spills over on the ceiling, walls, and railings in torrents of different hues. The luminous points dance, embrace, mix, and finally explode into a blending waterfall.

The entrance exam takes place on the first floor. No one has to wait in the corridor: the door is wide open, the windows open up on a blue sky from which one can see the fantastic silhouette of Hradčany castle.

I sit down at a small green table and examine the file, placed on my right. The exam is anonymous. My file bears number 6. I caress it with the tips of my fingers. Introducing myself, I hope we shall become friends.

Nice little number, come and play with me.

A warm, gentle voice fills the room with reassuring sounds: welcoming and encouraging us. It believes in our success, and I feel confident.

After the Twentieth Congress, the Soviet Communist Party was in doubt about what to do with the university professors released from the Gulag Archipelago. The Party feared their rebel influence, their nonconformity, and their knowledge. Physical liquidation being no longer in vogue, the “iconoclasts” were “banished” to foreign countries, far from the Soviet homeland.

The Institute of Russian Language and Literature was created in Prague to accommodate them and other undesirable elements, and I had the honor and the chance to become one of their disciples. Through them I grasped fully and totally the words of Maxim Gorky:

“The human being—that sounds proudly.”

I have finished writing.

I look around me. In sharp contrast with the “normal” candidates at university examinations, I and my lot form an odd group: our age is diverse, our destiny is the same. Inhibited from pursuing our studies under Stalin's prompt “justice,” we know our pursuit of Russian is a way out, realizing that even this imposed solution is a rare privilege and not something to be despised.

I hand my paper to the professor, entrusting it to him. He seems upright and good. I have nothing to fear.

I march down the staircase with a conqueror's step and make my way towards Vltava. On the bridge, seagulls launch their white salute, honoring me with their daring loops. The river runs in sparkling cascades, folding like a shimmering carpet at my feet.

I cross the bridge and then descend the massive white-stone steps, leading down to a green and peaceful island. I sit on the oak bench beside the river. The sun radiates warmth and licks me lovingly from head to toe. As a mother bear cares for her little one and shapes its body, it molds me.

My oral that afternoon is a conversation between friends, united through common interests. Russian flows smoothly like the honey of acacia, the swarm of bees recognizing someone of their own kind.

The examiner and the candidate are bound by complicity; their profound, sublime understanding is providential, not just a stroke of luck.

I leave the professor with regret.

It is good to be among one's own.

I have no time to stay and catch the first train for Ústí. Iris is alone and I am worried. I am certain that Rudolf will look after her: he cannot afford a public scandal, jeopardizing his reputation as a man, and he is always respectful of authorities.

I have missed the express train and I have to take the local. Its slowness is disconcerting; the close confines of the passageway vibrate under my fidgety feet.

“The movement of a ball is only the ball changing places,” scans my thumping heart in unison with the rattling of wheels, the carriage trembling to our polyphonic rhythm.

The train stops with exasperating regularity. At each stop the disembarking passengers reluctantly step off. Newcomers board with hesitation and the station-master signals the departure with the halting gesture of an actor in a silent movie.

I would like to get off, and run the remaining distance, so consumed with impatience am I. Returning home out of breath, I would tear the door ajar, assuring myself that Iris would still be there, safe, sitting at the windowsill, swept away in her Siamese dreams.

With a heavy heart, I climb the stairs and open the door; Rudolf is slumped, face down, on the table. On hearing me enter, he raises his head and looks at me with forsaken eyes. On the floor lies a black bag, convulsively shaking.

“Since you left, Iris has been continually howling: everyone will know now that we keep a cat! She has to go, as quickly as possible. For the moment, she is in the bag because it muffles her mewing.”

Frantically, I open the bag. Iris throws herself on my neck, presses her little triangular face against mine; her claws dig into my flesh.

Punishing me, she accepts me. Giving herself to me, she reclaims me as her possession.

The love of a Siamese cat is an all-consuming engagement between two characters, those of slave and master. Both parts are interchangeable, autonomous and sovereign. They unfold between life and death.

Renouncement and destruction are synonymous terms.

The love of a Siamese cat is a relationship characterized by the biblical term of “an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth,” cruel and intolerant.

The ethics of a Siamese cat is the linear righteousness of the Jewish God, exterminating his own people since they did not worship him enough, and perishing with them himself.

The love of Iris is hard and merciless, suspicious and spiteful, in constant need of assurance that our engagements match, ready to reject me if I do not live up to her expectations.

When I go out, she falls asleep; I return and she is, once again, at my disposal. She puts her paws around my neck, she presses her little nose against mine to breathe in my breath, she licks me to give me her smell and take mine.

Rudolf does not bother her. He is part of the inventory like the other objects in the room. She passes by without being aware of him. Her relation to him is neutral coexistence.