The Drowning Of A Goldfish (5 page)

The weaver, half-blind, will be fired, without any indemnity or pension. The comrade-managers “after lengthy and mature considerations”—as the communist jargon goes—will find her unworthy “to harvest the fruits of the socialism, whose fields she did not plough.”

Věra, after her discharge from the hospital, will disappear forever from my eyes. Enlightened, or liquidated, I will never know.

And what about me?

I shall be married the following month.

My husband-to-be is all perfection. Handsome, in a respectable situation. We get acquainted during his internship at the hospital.

Was my marriage to this very distinguished gentleman due to my instinct for survival rather than my grandmother's education? I shall never know.

He sits beside my bed, recites inspired poems, treats me as his cherished child, and devours, morsel by morsel, the goodies on my night table, in which I show so little interest.

Dressed in angelic white, Rudolf Velenský is sweetness personified. His soft, chestnut-brown hair, slightly wavy, rests obediently above his domed forehead; his large, almond-shaped, green eyes, bordered by long silky eyelashes, contemplate the world serenely. His lips are elegantly parted, showing perfectly aligned, ivory white teeth; his cheeks blush with decency.

In order not to offend me and to avoid posing embarassing questions, he engaged a colleague of his to complete my file. One does not ask a pure and innocent young girl something as vulgar as the date of her first period. To see me naked, he will wait until our wedding night, for he made a firm decision: he will marry me.

He has noticed the attention I am given by the head doctor, the special treatment I receive. He would never waste his chance, he, the son of a village cop from Moravia, without any social standing, to better his situation.

Without the right connections, he has to await a post for country doctor in some provincial hole, a future incompatible with his dreams of success.

The fact that, since the beginning of his studies, he has lived with a co-student, does not bother him in the least. A woman who gets laid without being married is nothing but a tramp and, as such, no match for him.

Moreover, she slept with others before him. Once fallen, a woman never recovers again.

How embarrassed he would be if he ever met any of her former lovers!

On top of all this wickedness, she even finds pleasure in sex! She twists like an eel, screams like a pig; the pleasure deforms her features. How could anyone respect such a creature?! Rudolf keeps her only for his personal hygiene. To maintain one's faculties in harmonious equilibrium, a man must have a regular sex life, preferably without being emotionally involved. Once married to a chaste young thing, he will become a model husband. He has lived his life and sown his wild oats—his wife has nothing to fear.

This is how he will explain it to me one day. Right now, the only topics of our conversation are poetry and literature, the “decent” ones. All that Rudolf's intellect can grasp in art is realism. He enjoys narrative short stories, clear, pre-chewed, and easy to digest. Life will prepare so many bad surprises for us. Let literature be indulgent.

Rudolf loves to teach me, to show me the paths of virtue. His goal is for me to become a lady, modeled after his aunt who knew how to keep her composure when the Gestapo shot to death, right before her eyes, her own husband, an officer of the former Czechoslovak army.

This individual had lost all traces of dignity since, instead of becoming a prisoner in the concentration camp, as any good officer would have done, he opted to flee and thus showed himself unworthy of his wife's tears.

To top my affliction—since it is certain that whatever I undertake, I will always be far from reaching Rudolf's aunt's perfection—this lady is blessed with a daughter of exceptional qualities, Zdenička.

My knowledge of this object of supreme virtue is drawn from two sources: Rudolf's talk of Zdenička's refined sense of politeness and from a picture, taken by Rudolf, where a soft, blonde, and plump little girl is looking into the void without bestowing one single glance at a large bowl of red, juicy, ripe cherries, placed in front of her on a table, covered with an intricately embroidered cloth.

A chasm separates us! In my world, the elaborate pyramid of fleshy fruit would have collapsed under my gluttony long before; the tablecloth stained, the bowl indelibly slipping out of my avid fingers and breaking into a thousand pieces.

To subdue the material world, one has to be a lady.

How lucky I am that Rudolf, conscientious doctor, is commited to nature's laws, forbidding intrafamilial links under the threat of degenerescence! If not, my chance to become his spouse would be gone.

This is left unspoken, but between the lines. What a refined gentleman he is, this charming doctor Velenský!

Suddenly, I am struck by the sense of déja vu … The familiar shadows of the Koubek theater are closing in on me with a suave menace. Finally, they are getting at me. This time, it is without escape.

Once huddled up in the reassuring warmth of her grandmother, the spectator leaves her plush red velvet chair to become one of the actors in this gloomy and impudent melodrama, where burning tears would be shed and where a small child would reach for the moon.

I am getting married to this man, even as I know that I make a mistake. This is obvious to Father, too. For once, he does not order me around, he beseeches me to rely on my own strength to survive. He impores me not to rush into something that I will later regret.

But I am not brave enough to return to the crates in the warehouse and to the piercing cold.

I cannot.

This time, I would not survive.

My mind is set.

When later, a vile scandal erupts, I will feel disgusted but will not draw back:

My husband-to-be has been prepared to break off with his mistress—noblesse oblige—but not with his sexual urge. In order to keep his mind and body in balance, he started an affair with a young patient who felt the same urge during her husband's business trip, a flirtation without tomorrow and without risk … if only she were clean and Mirek, one of Rudolf's friends, could shut up and not report this incident to my father!

Mirek is not the only traitor. FrantiÅ¡ek, Rudolf's best friend, informs Father that my husband-to-be tells everybody who wants to hear it that his only reason for marrying me is to obtain what's left of our family's property and to profit from Father's social relationships. And more: in order not to leave anyone in the dark about his real feelings for me, Rudolf takes refuge in the wisdom of the people of his native country: “If one puts one's foot in shit, it should be worth the trouble.”

The ideal of Rudolf's feminine beauty is a Hollywood pin-up girl, whose sexual attraction is hardly comparable to mine.

On my flat chest, the brassière would be a mere ornament; my hair, thick, full, and shoulder-length, looks violently wind struck; I do not dress up; to keep myself warm I take whatever I find in my closet.

Rudolf is uneasy about it and ashamed to be seen with me. Out of despair, one day he brings me lipstick, which he himself puts on my mouth, insisting that I contemplate my miraculous transformation in a mirror. I consider the result disastrous: the red smear clashes with my olive skin, and the sweetish taste of the lipstick makes me sick.

As a perfect gentleman, he also muffles the scandal. He is stunned by his friend's indiscretion. He is so miserable! He trusted his friends absolutely and was betrayed! These infamous snakes! These treacherous sons of bitches! These impudent calumniators!

He will hand over the matter to his lawyer: let them deliver their proofs! Do they have any witnesses?

To clarify matters, Father asks Rudolf to be examined, with due discretion, by one of Father's doctor friends.

Rudolf is shocked. He cannot allow himself to be compromised in such a shameful manner!

He cannot be ridiculed to such a point, degraded in the eyes of his peers!

Father feels obliged to tell me about the scandal; ever so delicately, ever so tenderly.

It is my first year of high school. For the following week we are to have completed homework in Latin, physics, biology, and geography. There will be a test in mathematics as well
.

I am in despair: black, bottomless despair, the kind that only a child can feel. I am wandering about in our flat, so vast, so empty
.…

The deep folds of the portières close behind me, when I am passing through, with the sliding friction of silk moth's wings. At the far end of the flat, a yellowish light is piercing the darkness. Father is sitting at his desk, his eternally burning cigarette poised between his lips, his files spread out before him. He is tired and lonely … as I am. More. He will never get through
.

I approach silently, cringing in anticipation of being chased out. I am scared of bothering him. I hate to be a burden
.

Father smiles. He invites me with a welcoming smile to sit down beside him. I am to wait a little, so that he can finish his thoughts. He rests his hand on my hair, a heavy, touching hand, not a caressing one
.

I break into uncontrollable sobbing, laying bare all my terror and anguish over the number of tasks in front of me. He seems to understand. He assures me of his support, he wants to help me, he is prepared to explain things
.

He is certain of my success and believes in me. I shall be the best
…

I clench my teeth. My body becomes tense; as rigid and as hard as a pebble
.

One day, the doctors will notice that my skin is joined to my spine in a compact mass
.

Even if I believe what father tells me about Rudolf, I cannot accept it. To accept the truth, one needs the strength to survive it; my strength has gone, crushed under the crates, wasted by the cold.

When there is a hollow, death seeps in. I am this hollow. I, who breathe, move, revel in culture, drink the sun's warmth with every cell of my body …

It is a late October afternoon. The last sunbeams spangle the chestnut leaves with golden sequins. The private Life of the city to which I belong and from which I am excluded, continues. Without me, Prague is nothing but a mass of stones, concrete, and scrap iron. I love it, therefore it exists. My duty towards it binds me. What will become of the city if I am dead?

“Whatever you say, I will marry him!”

I am tense, rigid, I feel nauseous. All this vulgarity makes me tremble with disgust.

“Whatever he did, I will marry him.”

This is me. This is Prague. It is father who depends on me. If I die, who will keep them alive?

The bride wore black …

The church, Holy Mary under the Chain (Chrám Panny Marie pod Řetězem), is my private territory. Since always and forever.

It is cold and the sky is limpid. It is winter in Prague, the Christmas season
.

Christmas in Prague, where each church tower, and Prague has hundreds of them, celebrates the birth of Christ by a silvery tinkling of its frosted bells
.

We make our tour. I, in my white rabbit fur, Grandmother in her black astrakhan. She looks beautiful. Her hair, sparkling like snow under the turned down brim of her soft, velvet hat, fondles the caramel creaminess of her large, open face; her eyes have the sweetness of milk chocolate; and her cheeks glow like rosy almond paste. Her mouth small and delicate, lies under the surveillance of her nose, a severe and watchful guardian
.

I nestle my hand in the warm tenderness of hers and press myself against the roundness of her proud body. I would like to hide inside her
.

The church is a fortified structure. Grandmother pulls the massive bolt and pushes the small, narrow door open. I slip into the opening of a thick wall. The garth is vast and profound, paved with large, browning stones and covered with soft, white snow, which deepens the immeasurable silence
.

The cold air, sharp and crisp, makes my nostrils tingle. It pricks my cheeks and slips deceitfully under the collar of my rabbit fur. Frost attacks only little people. Against the body of Grandmother, emanating a radiating warmth, it breaks, losing its power
.

We enter by a wide-open, lateral door. Grandmother moves with the majesty of a vessel on a high sea. She walks. She does not scamper about. Her feet are large and solid, and her suede, flat-heeled shoes are comfortable. Supported by her social standing, Grandmother mocks the trend
.

I dip my fingers in the holy water. Solemnly, I make the sign of the cross. It is impolite to enter without greeting, and God is surely worthy of the same politeness as our concierge
.

The dimness extends the nave into stellar distances. It covers the statues with transparent veils, wipes the gold off the paintings. The candle flames tremble when it touches them
.

Cold cracks under our steps. My throat is dry with anguish. One more second and I shall flee
.

Suddenly, a luminous cavern appears out of the dark. Hand in hand, we enter the chapel, where the infant Jesus is resting on golden straw, holding out to us his frail arms. Their transparence has the fragility of wax roses; the artificial delicateness heightens the impression of immaculate innocence
.

The seated Virgin Mary and Saint Joseph, standing behind the crib, are frozen in their official immobility, expressing the satisfaction of an accomplished task
.

For love, there are the animals. The donkey and the cow tenderly warm the baby with their breath, which smells of fresh milk and a halcyon mountain stable. The three kings have not yet arrived. But certainly they will not get lost in the snowy plains; a bright yellow star clearly marks their path
.

I breathe the green perfume of firs, covered with fluffy snowflakes. I wrap myself up in calm silence and sweet safety. My numbness is profound and heavy
.

A fulmination of splintering sounds sweeps through church and clears the shadowy silence, driving it brutally away: the five o'clock mass is about to begin
.