The Drowning Of A Goldfish (8 page)

Twisting me into its image, the garden clasps me in its magic screen. Melting under its treacherous caresses, I enter the pavilion of the cancerous.

Our room is located high above in the attic. It is barren as a monk's cell. There are two metal hospital beds, a little table with two straight-back chairs, a sagging set of shelves, supported against the wall, and a yellowish wardrobe.

The bathroom and the kitchenette are in the corridor for common usage.

Rudolf puts my suitcase on the table and leaves for work.

I stand beneath the grilled dormer-window, exposing a whitened sky.

Stifling anguish grips my throat. My heart palpitates in the expectation of an inexpressible distress. Cold sweat is streaming down my back, and I shiver in the rhythm of my terror-stricken breath:

I am alone.

Alone for ever.

Alone in time.

Alone in space.

And it breaks my heart.

It is five o'clock one afternoon in early December, the day before Santa Claus
.

I step out of the door of the school. Vodičkova Street jumps into my sight and drums in my ears
.

Streetcars flow along the veins of rails as cars chase them. They intertwine and stop in a stupor in front of the red lights. Pedestrians swarm ahead, escaping from their unquenchable greed
.

The windows of the café-sweetshop Myšák, gleaming with mellow barley-sugar light, display Santa Claus in almond paste. This saintly man is accompanied by tiny chocolate devils, who entice one into the evil sin of gluttony
.

The temptation is mouthwateringly sweet
.

I turn right and start up Venceslav's square. There are shorter ways to return home. None of them is as beautiful
.

I love the gleaming shop windows, the people who stroll. I love Prague in its leisure; the city of movie theaters, art galleries, and luxury shops
.

The faces of work are gray and dead
.

The statue of Saint Venceslav's, casting a massive shadow, walls up the bloodthirsty tragedy in its pedestal. His grandmother Ludmila rests there on her bed, strangled by her grandson Boleslav, whose dagger slit the throat of his brother as smoothly as a knife moving through butter
.

This saint is the patron of my country
.

This sly slaughter is its history
.

This refusal to know is our survival
.

The city offers the tiny handkerchief of the Park of Karolina Světlá to its sick branches, shaking in fits of coughing. I traverse the park in three big strides and plunge into Žitná Street. I run up to the church of Saint Ludmila, whose towers and sharp spires tear the pale dusk of the city to pieces, condemning it to night
.

My heart throbs in sudden fright as I race to the end of Francouzská Street, turn left, and keep running. Breathless, I come to a halt under the windows of our house. They are still there, illuminated, calm, reassuring
.

I rush up the staircase; the bell trembles under my impatient fingers. When the door opens, I dive in
.

Inside, it is warm and bright, full of appetizing smells, which promise a good dinner
.

My bed is covered with presents: candies, fruit, and nuts. It is the day of Santa Claus, when every good child is rewarded
.

Struck with a hallucinating fatigue, I falter. Where is my Prince Charming to take me in his arms and save my life?

This time, my waiting room is a third class one. The trains pass at top speed from Purgatory to Inferno.

This time, to live means to survive.

Beneath me, the floor resonates with muffled sounds, muddled muttering, and stifled cries. Silence crumbles into decay.

Maimed shadows creep from dark corners and ooze out towards me. My torpor, swollen with sweetish anguish, is lethal.

With the obstinacy of a blade of grass piercing the tarmac, resistance scrapes a path through the gray cells of my bemused brain.

I push my hand against the hard, cool wood. One after another, my feet unglue from the floor, my back straightens, ossifies, making me stand upright.

Step by step I walk; as if, after a long illness, gnawed at by weakness, I learn to use my own force. The obscure space between me and the door recedes and my hand finally strikes the cold doorknob, my palm clutching its sharp, bruising shape …

The door eases open.

The corridor, long and white, lures me into a noxious trap where opaque bodies rush to meet me. I become frightened as they approach.

In the distance, a bare light bulb dances in the draft, hurling itself against the rampant darkness in a violent shock.

I thrust against the iron grating of the narrow staircase and lean over. Trembling, I listen for the familiar steps. Gasping for breath, I rush into Rudolf's arms.

His well-articulated voice stops me halfway.

“A lady never runs, especially not after a man. You can be sure that what I am saying is for your own good. How can I respect a woman who lets her emotions show?! How can I remain faithful to her?!

“And don't forget that I only need to raise my little finger and any woman I want would sink into my arms.”

My life of a young spouse consists of never-ending advice “for my own good.”

The moral teaching of Rudolf abounds in indisputable truths:

I am ugly, stupid, and too old. He married me, being confident that even with all my physical and spiritual deficiencies, I possessed qualities that redeem everything: faithfulness, loyalty, and devotion until death do us part.

As for Rudolf, he will endure any strain and resist any temptation, provided I am obedient and become his kind of a “lady.”

Rudolf's fidelity only goes as far as not sleeping with everyone who comes his way.

He is a born flirt and knows how to play the game.

When a bird crosses Rudolf's path, a red light flashes on: would he, should he …?

“But, my darling, can an honest man like me deceive this poor little thing, who worships me with a dog-like devotion?! She breathes only for me. Have mercy on her, sweetie, she would not survive it.”

After his return home, while scrutinizing my face, Rudolf never forgets to record his daily virtuous victories.

He insists that I look straight into his eyes, openly, without blinking, because:

“The eyes are the mirror of the soul; yours have many dark corners.”

Am I grateful enough? Do I realize the extent of the sacrifices he is making for me? Are the deprivations he is subjected to matched by my devotion?
he asks severely, without stopping to savor his dinner.

In addition to being loyal beyond any doubt, I am endowed with a supplementary quality: I know how to cook.

One of the rare sound investments my great-grandfather—a jolly man of the world but a rather mediocre businessman—had ever made was to send his daughter to the best cooking academy in Vienna where, along with other young ladies of good families, my grandmother not only displayed a great interest, but also a natural talent for the preparation of delicious dishes.

Knowing that the way to the heart is through the stomach, Grandmother enlightened me with all her secrets. With an angelic patience and an unshakeable demeanor, she endured my eternal questioning. Why could one not do it another way?

Confining herself to the know-how, Grandmother must have found my challenge for the know-why redundant, if not impertinent.

My days, lonely and gray, slip by with prison-like regularity.

I get up at six and prepare breakfast, while Rudolf preens himself. I serve him breakfast, he goes to work.

Always, he refuses my timid offer to accompany him through the park leading to the hospital, qualifying it as “undesirable supervision.”

I clear the table and wash up. Then I sit down beneath the skylight, open my books, and start to study.

At the end of each week, I pass an exam. I write the questions on little cards, mix them up, pull three of them from the pile. I am a demanding examiner, seldom content with my answers.

At noon, I am allowed to meet Rudolf for lunch at the hospital canteen. I sit beside him and open my mouth just to eat, while he jokes with his colleagues and enjoys himself.

He looks at me less than at his knife and fork, so as to avoid public ridicule: “Marital relations must exist only in strict privacy … Anyhow, you are too old to be childish.”

After lunch, we return home for Rudolf's nap. I am allowed to read, provided I am capable of turning the pages without any noise, which is not always the case.

I could go down and read in the garden. Rudolf doesn't need me at his side. But for me, any presence, even a mute one, is preferable to being alone.

Softly, the newspaper drops from Rudolf's slack hands. His body slumps, softened by sleep; his head sinks deep into the cushions. His mouth opens and he begins to snore. A slimy dribble appears between his lips, runs across his chin, and wets his shirt-collar. A deep crease divides his forehead, his eyes roll about beneath closed eyelids. The meal was indigestible. The wakening will be difficult and mean.

Rudolf's temper rises and descends on me like the waves of a stormy sea. He saves it for “at home.” Wanting me to be his slave, he casts me in the double role of
Mary
and also the dog.

“Anyway, a wife is more accommodating than an animal … and less expensive. She renders more service.” It is more suitable to “keep a wife.”

Once married, a man can live his life without being considerate and playing tiring games. He can let himself go and still have his self-respect. Marriage is a blissful haven, sheltering him from the winds of revolt. He wants to finish his life in the fluffy slippers of conjugal devotion. This is why he married me. For this he “keeps” me.

I have what I have always wanted. I can study. I have all day and all night. What more could I desire?

With heavy feet and rubbery legs, I roam along the embankment of the Vltava. The swollen, yellow river throws up, in nervous belches, its squalid water.

I hang on to the railing; craving its reassuring hardness. I try to breathe deeply to calm my heart, which beats its panic-stricken wings against my panting throat.

In a couple of minutes, I must gather all my courage and strength to climb the staircase of Charles University and engage in a lost fight.

I do not aim at victory.

I strive to survive.

The very moment I give up fighting, they will blot me out.

A crowd has been waiting in the corridor for one, two, three hours. It is part of THEIR suppressive tactics to degrade human beings, to turn them into faceless crowds, forgotten in dark hallways.

The tension mounts. It is dense, palpable; nerves on edge, I writhe in spasms of increasing dread.

Faces soften, revealing their decaying carcasses. Gazing with a dirty eye, one spies upon the other.

The pack, its muzzle to the ground, sniffs out the beaten ones; bristling its spine, it gets ready to attack.

Squeezed into a dark corner, I can hardly breathe … Oh, to pass unnoticed, to edge my way into the crowd, to share its chances! To become a drop of water which disappears, when mingled with the muddy stream! My existence weighs on me.

The door opens. A cracking, lifeless voice shakes me like a rag doll and drags me out of my hiding place.

“Comrade Velenská, enter! It is your turn.”

The room is as bare as only a Protestant temple or communist sanctuary can be, where art, individualist venture, offends the indignant authorities by contravening the precepts of submission to their will.

Every aesthetic need of the herd must be satisfied by the gigantic portrait of the supreme master, the infallible leader, Father Stalin. Every year he smiles more viciously at his loyal vassal Klement Gottwald, President of the Czechoslovakian Republic, who reveals his blessed submission in a correspondingly modest dimension.

The more humble the vassal, the more radiant the tyrant's smile.

At the far end of the examination room is the pulpit of sublime truth, surrounded by five chairs. From its height, five comrades instruct their faithful horde in their salutary teachings.

I am standing by the door, waiting for permission to approach and “put my case into the people's hands.”

The tribunal, gathered at the table, hunch over my file. Their hissings pierce the silence with violent menace and malicious snubs.

I am standing by the door, watching them, despising them. Scorn straightens my back, strengthens my legs, dries up my palms.

Here am I, a human being, sovereign and unique … but subjected to their destruction.

And they, they are an amorphous mass, formed by Power into its instrument, the den of a universal, omnipotent hatred.

I am standing by the door. A soft, sickly, sweetish voice, tinged with a shrewd kindness, snaps me out of my stupor and asks me to pledge my case before the bar.

“Comrade Velenská, come close so that we can see you better.”

“Well, well, is it not Daddy's little girl who tries again to worm her way through our ranks?!”

“You don't count with the PEOPLE, do you? Do you know that the cloth does not make a monk?!”

“But do sit down, Comrade. We shall take our time to discuss your problem. Open your heart to your comrades. And be sure that whatever we decide is for your own good … which, of course, must conform to the justice of the PEOPLE, whose interests you certainly cherish, whose defender you would like to be, wouldn't you? That's true, isn't it? Or … would you remain the same rampant bourgeois individualist, who tries to profit at the expense of the working class?! Do you intend to be a parasite on its labor?! To usurp its results?!”

“You don't say anything, Comrade?! Are we right?! Did you come here hoping to educate your shabby little bourgeois soul at the expense of the SOCIETY?!”

“You don't speak, Comrade … have you nothing to say?! And what about us?! Who are wasting our precious time, which belongs to the PEOPLE …?! The working class, wishing to give a chance to everybody of pure heart, is too indulgent with a dirty slug like you! Get out of here! And make sure that we don't see you again!”