The JOKE (17 page)

Something is afoot, my friends, which puts me in fear."

The man asks: "You have not forgotten how to ride?" Only now do I note that by his horse there stands a saddled mount without a rider. The man points to it. I put my foot in the stirrup and hoist myself up. The horse rears, but I am firmly in the saddle, my knees gripping its sides with delight. The man pulls a red veil from his pocket and hands it to me, saying, "Veil your face, that they may not know you!" I wind it round my face and am suddenly blind. "The horse will lead you," I hear the man's voice say.

The entire formation sets off at a trot. I feel the riders jogging along on both sides of me.

Their calves touch mine and I hear the snorting of their horses. We ride thus for an hour's time, body close to body. Then we halt. The same man's voice addresses me. "We have arrived, my king!"

"Arrived?" I ask. "Arrived where?"

"Do you not hear the murmur of a mighty river? We stand on the bank of the Danube.

Here you are safe, my king."

"Yes, I feel that I am safe. I should like to cast off my veil."

"You may not, my king, not yet. You do not need your eyes. The eyes would but deceive you."

"But I wish to see the Danube. It is my river, my mother river, I wish to see it!"

"You do not need your eyes, my king. Everything there is I shall tell you. It is better thus.

Around us are plains, as far as the eye can see. Pasture. Here and there are bushes, here and there a wooden stake, the

crossbar of a well. But we are on the grass by the riverbank. Not far from us the grass goes into sand, for the river here has a sandy bed. But now pray dismount, my king."

We dismount and sit upon the ground.

'The men are making a fire," I hear the man's voice say, "the sun is already merging with the distant horizon and it will be cold."

"I should like to see Vlasta," I say suddenly.

"You will see her."

"Where is she?"

"Not far from here. You will go to her. Your horse will take you to her."

I jump up and ask to leave at once. But the man's hand seizes me by the shoulder and forces me to the ground. "Sit here, my king. First you must rest and eat your fill.

Meanwhile, I shall tell you about her."

"Where is she?"

"An hour's ride from here is a wooden cottage with a thatched roof. It is encircled by a wooden fence."

"Yes, yes." I nod, and feel a joyous weight upon my heart. "All wood. That is as it should be. In her cottage there must not be a single nail."

"Yes," the voice goes on. "The fence is fashioned of wooden pickets roughly hewn. One still discerns the original shape of the branches in them."

"All things of wood are like cats or dogs," I say. "They are more beings than things. I love the world of wood. Only there am I at home."

"Beyond the fence grow sunflowers, marigolds, dahlias, and there too grows an old apple tree. At this very moment Vlasta stands upon the threshold."

"How is she dressed?"

"In a skirt of linen, slightly stained, for she is on her way back from the cowshed. In her hand she holds a wooden bucket. She is barefoot. But she is beautiful, because she is young."

"She is poor," I say, "a poor servant girl."

"Yes, but nonetheless a queen. And since a queen, she must be hidden. Even you may not go to her, lest she be revealed. Only in your veil may you go to her. Your horse will lead you to her."

So fine was the man's narration that it engulfed me in a sweet languor. I lay upon the grass listening to his voice and when it fell silent, I heard only the murmur of the water and crackle of the fire. So beautiful was it that I dared not open my eyes. But I had no choice. I knew the time had come and my eyes must open.

2

Underneath me there was a mattress on the lacquered wood. I
don't like lacquered wood.

Neither do I like the curved metal legs on which the sofa stands. Above me there is a pink glass globe with three white bands hanging from the ceiling. I don't like this globe either.

Nor the buffet facing me, its glass displaying other useless glass. The only wooden object in the room is the black harmonium in the corner. It's the only thing I like in the room. It used to be Papa's. Papa died a year ago.

I stood up from the sofa. I didn't feel rested. It was Friday afternoon, two days before Sunday's Ride of the Kings. Everything was up to me. Everything in our district connected with folklore is up to me. For two weeks now I haven't had a decent night's sleep what with all the errands, the chores, the petty arguments.

Then Vlasta came into the room. I keep telling myself she ought to gain weight. Fat women are usually good-natured. Vlasta is thin, her face already crisscrossed by fine wrinkles. She asked me whether I'd remembered to stop at the laundry on my way home from school. I'd forgotten. "I might have known," she said, and asked if I would stay home for once. I had to tell her no, I had a meeting in town. A district meeting. "You promised to help Vladimir with his homework." I shrugged. "Who's going to be at the meeting?" I gave her some names, and Vlasta interrupted. "Mrs. Hanzlik too?" I nodded.

Vlasta looked upset. I knew I was in for it. Mrs. Hanzlik had a bad reputation. It was common knowledge that she slept around. Vlasta didn't suspect me of being involved with her, but she bristled whenever her name came up. She looked down her nose at any meeting Mrs. Hanzlik attended. It was impossible to talk to her about it. I preferred to slip out of the house.

The meeting was devoted to last-minute preparations for the Ride of the Kings. The whole thing was a mess. The District National Committee was starting to cut back on our budget. Only a few years ago it had provided lavish subsidies for folk events. Now we had to support the District Committee. If the Youth League had no way of attracting members anymore, why not let it take over the Ride of the Kings? That would boost its prestige. Gone were the days when profits from the Ride would go to subsidize other, less popular, folk activities. This time the Youth League could have them and do whatever it pleased with them. We asked the police to close off the road for the duration of the Ride.

That very day we had received their refusal. It was impossible to disrupt traffic just for the sake of the Ride. But what kind of a Ride would it be with the horses stampeding among the cars? Nothing but worries, worries .. .

I couldn't get away from the meeting before eight. In the square, I saw Ludvik. He was walking in the opposite direction. I almost stopped dead in my tracks. What was he doing here? I caught his glance, which rested on me for a second and shifted quickly away.

Pretending he hadn't seen me. Two old friends. Eight years on the same school bench!

And he pretends he doesn't see me!

Ludvik was the first crack to appear in my life. By now I'm used to it. My life is a less than sturdy house. I was in Prague not long ago and I went to one of those little theaters, the kind that started springing up in the early sixties and quickly became the rage owing to the student humor of the young players. The show wasn't very interesting, but the songs were clever and the jazz quite good. All of a sudden the musicians donned feathered hats like the ones we wear with our folk costumes, and did a takeoff on a cimbalom ensemble. They screeched and wailed, mimicking our dance steps and the way we throw our arms up in the air.... It went on for no more than a few minutes, but it had the audience rolling in the aisles. I couldn't believe my eyes. Five years ago no one would have dared make clowns of us like that. And no one would have cracked a smile. Now we're a laughingstock. How is it we're suddenly a laughingstock?

And Vladimir. I've been having trouble with him these past few weeks. The District Committee proposed him to the Youth League as this year's king.

Having a son chosen king has always been a great honor for the father. And this year they were going to honor me. Reward me in the person of my son for everything I'd done for folk culture. But Vladimir bridled. He had all kinds of excuses. First he said he wanted to go to Brno on Sunday for the motorcycle races. Then he claimed he was afraid of horses.

Finally he came out and admitted he didn't want to be king if it was arranged from above.

He didn't want to pull strings.

The grief it's caused me. He seems to want to block out everything in his life that might remind him of mine. He always balked at taking part in the children's song and dance group I initiated in conjunction with our ensemble. He was quick with the excuses even then. He had no gift for music, he claimed. Yet he did quite well on the guitar and enjoyed getting together with friends to sing the latest American hits.

Of course, he's only fifteen. And he loves me. He's a sensitive boy. We had a heart-to-heart talk a few days ago. Maybe he understood.

3

I
remember it well. I was sitting in the swivel chair, Vladimir across from me on the sofa.

I leaned my elbow on the closed lid of the harmonium, my favorite instrument. I'd heard it ever since I was a child. My father played it every day. Folk songs, mainly, with simple harmonies. It was like the bubbling of a far-offspring. If only Vladimir would try to understand it. If only he'd try to understand.

During the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries the Czech nation almost ceased to exist.

In the nineteenth century it was virtually reborn. Among the old European nations it was a child. True, it also had its own great past, but it was cut off from that past by a gap of two hundred years, when the Czech language retreated to the countryside, the exclusive property of the illiterate. But even in their midst it never ceased to create its own culture.

A modest culture, completely hidden from the eyes of Europe. A culture of songs, fairy tales, ancient rites and customs, proverbs and sayings. The only narrow footbridge across the two-hundred-year gap.

The only bridge, the only link. The only fragile stem of an unbroken tradition. That is why the men who at the turn of the nineteenth century began to create a new Czech literature and music grafted them onto this stem. That is why the first Czech poets and musicians spent so much time collecting tales and songs. And that is why their early attempts were often little more than paraphrases of folk poetry and folk melodies.

If only you'd try to understand, Vladimir. Your papa is not just a crackpot folklore addict.

Maybe he is an addict, but he goes deeper than that. He hears in folk art the sap that kept Czech culture from drying up.

My love for it dates back to the war. They tried to make us believe we had no right to exist, we were nothing but Czech-speaking Germans.

We needed to prove to ourselves we'd existed before and still did exist. We all made a pilgrimage to the sources.

I was playing bass at the time in an amateur jazz band. One fine day, we had a visit from some members of the Moravian Society. They said we should resurrect the cimbalom band. That it was our patriotic duty.

Who could have refused under those circumstances? I went and played the violin with them.

We roused old songs from their deathlike slumber. Those nineteenth-century patriots had put folk songs into songbooks in the nick of time. Modern civilization was already pushing folklore into the background. So in the beginning of our century we had folklore societies springing up, taking folk art out of the songbooks and bringing it back to life.

First in the towns. Then in the countryside as well. And most of all in Moravia. They worked to revitalize the folk rituals, the Ride of the Kings, they supported folk

ensembles. For a while they seemed to be fighting a losing battle. Folklorists couldn't revive traditions as rapidly as civilization could bury them.

The war gave us new impetus. In the last year of the Nazi occupation, the Ride of the Kings was staged in our village. There was an army camp in the town, and German officers jostled the local population in the streets. The Ride turned into a demonstration.

A host of colorful young men on horseback, with sabers. An invincible Czech horde. A deputation from the depths of history. That's how all the Czechs saw it, and their eyes lit up. I was fifteen at the time, and they chose me king. I rode between two pages and had my face veiled. I was proud. And my father was proud, knowing they had chosen me king in his honor. He was a village schoolmaster, a patriot, everyone admired him.

I believe things have a meaning, Vladimir. I believe the fates of men are bonded one to the other by the cement of wisdom. I see a sign in the fact that it was you they chose to be king this year. I'm as proud as I was twenty years ago. Prouder. Because in you they wish to honor me. And I appreciate this honor, why deny it? I want to hand my kingdom over to you. And I want you to accept it from me.

Perhaps he did understand me. He promised to accept the offer to be king.

4

IF only he would try to understand how interesting it all is. I can't imagine anything more interesting. Anything more exciting.

Take this, for example. Prague musicologists have long claimed that the European folk song originated in the Baroque. Village musicians who played and sang in the orchestras of the great houses brought the musical culture of the nobility into the life of the people.