Harlequin's Millions (17 page)

the tombstones onto the truck, he shattered the faces beyond recognition, he mutilated them, the way murderers do, but it wasn't necessary, because wherever they were being taken, the stones would be sanded down, the first and last names that were carved into the surface would be removed and stonemasons would inscribe the names of the newly deceased, for the benefit of the grieving relatives who had ordered the tombstone … Mr. Václav Kořínek, witness to old times, seemed to have brightened up a bit, he sat down and said, this time not as a reproach, or for the sake of comparison, but simply for the fun of it … Oh yes, on the day before Christmas, everything was ready, in the Ramparts too, the street where we lived. Freshly baked Christmas cakes, mothers placed them proudly on their windowsills and people who met each other in the street were full of good cheer. They wished each other Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Mr. Rubek the mailman came to the door in full dress with a shiny new almanac for us tucked under his arm. Mr. Kulička the chimney sweep came by too, with a clean face and a white cap, and gave us a calendar that he said would bring us good luck all year long. We trimmed the Christmas tree, a fine young spruce that Papa, a boilerman, brought back on his return trip from Hanušovice, on the way there the train passed a little watch-house and Papa tossed a chunk of wood out of the locomotive with a
note attached asking for a Christmas tree. On the way back the railroad watchman was waiting for him with the spruce and simply handed it to him … Said Mr. Kořínek and suddenly he grew solemn, three trucks had started off down the road, from up on the castle gallery you could see the black tombstones lying side by side in the back of the truck, the way they transported the dead during the war, the trucks disappeared, then reappeared a moment later, closer than before … Mr. Kořínek took out his notebook, removed a folded letter from between its pages, he unfolded it and read it aloud, so loudly that the pensioners sitting on the benches in the courtyard turned their faces to him, and those who were strolling froze, slowly turned and looked up toward the voice shouting out across the fields … My dear little town, although I have spent so many years abroad and am now such an old man, I still think of you, my native town. I salute you, Ostrov, avenue of birches, restaurant by the weir, where one could sit back and listen to the roaring of the water, I salute you, avenue of limes, the road to Šumava, great, beautiful meadow, flat as a tabletop and fringed with tall trees, I salute you, mighty dam, and Dubina, and you three tall poplars in Rohov, and you, Mr. Kofroň. Do you still monitor the water level and sound the alarm when the ice breaks up? And the bridge? Does it still tremble when a heavy floe hits one of its piers? And how are Mr. Poláček and
Boháček and all their friends? Such fine fellows! In summer they mined sand from the Elbe and in spring, when the ice began breaking up, they pushed apart the ice floes with long forked sticks. And how is the Old Fishery? And that lovely spot at the foot of the Ramparts, where we used to stand and watch the foaming water tumbling from the weir into the millrace? I often think back on the quiet Church Square with the imposing structure of the cathedral, whose towers can be seen from miles around. And the fountains, into which people nowadays probably throw things that don't belong. And I think of the promenade from the Bártl home to the Měšťans, where even now the girls probably still smile and wink at the students, oh how we envied them. And do the great windows of the dance hall at Hotel Na Knížecí still glow in the distance when there's a soiree or a ball? And Mr. Preclík, does he still play those beautiful waltzes? And whatever became of Stázička, our lovely dancer, who was said to be the prettiest girl in our little town and would show up for a date wearing her brother's shoes? They were too big for her, but she obviously wanted to shock us, because they were bright yellow, and that was a rarity back then. I salute you all, as you live on in my memory, even if Mr. Hanuš has made your bed for all eternity, and no doubt someone else has done the same for him. May a summer breeze blow the petals from a rosebush and scatter them on
your graves, together with a handful of memories … Cried and shouted the witness to old times Mr. Kořínek, reading what it said in the letter, and there, within sight of the retirement home, the three trucks disappeared with the black tombstones of citizens, people, who years ago had lived in the little town where time hasn't stood still for anything, not even for the old graveyard. In the afternoon the wrought-iron playpens from the children's section were carted off to the scrap-metal yard … but in the old graveyard, among the few remaining graves, among the uprooted acacias and thujas, there, with even more zest and enthusiasm than before, almost a kind of malice, and now with plenty of space to drive around in, the three tractors engaged in battle with the remaining tombstones, which no longer had as much strength as when they had been standing side by side, in close ranks, and for a moment it had seemed, but that had been only an illusion, that the tractors didn't stand a chance … Now their victory was assured, the phalanx of tombstones had been almost entirely mowed down and carted off, a few still lay on their backs, yet it seemed to me that the tractors were now much fiercer, almost deranged, like an angry swarm of bees, they charged furiously at the stones that were still standing, the machines seemed to cheer each time they knocked down another tombstone, their engines roared with determination, as if they wanted to resolve
this unequal struggle as quickly as possible. When dusk had fallen, and then evening, all you could see were the moving headlights bringing down the last tombstones … It was alarming to watch a bulldozer, which you couldn't see, light up a tombstone, headlights coming closer and closer, until it crashed into that stone with its enormous shovel, the headlights seemed to sniff at the first and last names of the deceased and for a moment neither tombstone nor tractor moved, from a distance all you could see was that terrible tension, like when the dentist clamps your teeth one by one in his pliers and pulls with all his might, then there was a dead minute, and then something in the foundation gave way and the tombstone fell, and then the next one and finally at midnight the last one … and the tractors kept driving around and around the former graveyard, their headlights sniffing, scouring the battlefield, everything that had been standing now lay flat, but that wasn't enough for the tractors and their headlights … they drove around in circles to make sure they hadn't missed any tombstones, perhaps one of the smaller stones in the children's section … The witness to old times Mr. Otokar Rykr, deeply moved, ran his hands through his hair, then he leaned one hand on the railing of the balustrade, he raised the other, looked down at the ravaged graveyard and said cheerfully … Oh yes, the student outings to Ostrov were extremely
popular, the students set up wooden platforms in front of the former restaurant by the old weir, makeshift stages, where they could perform, and they borrowed market-stall tarpaulins from all the confectioners and bakers in the little town to protect these platforms from the rain. Groups of students entertained each other during those Ostrov outings by singing songs from popular songbooks, performing monologues and reciting poems composed for the occasion. They accompanied the songs with drawings, like street singers with their broadsides ballads of life and death … Inside the restaurant, which was decorated with brightly painted and bullet-riddled targets, the remains of old shooting matches, there was dancing till dusk to the music of a quartet, consisting of two violins, Mr. Votava's clarinet and a double bass, under the direction of one of the violinists, the small, irascible master shoemaker Jan Marysko … said Mr. Otokar Rykr, smiling happily, down below the tombstone-laden drays drove into the light of the street lamps and then sank back into the darkness. Mr. Rykr threw back his head and laughed, then said … Now for something more pleasant, I'm sure you'll all be interested in hearing the story of Bubi, whose real name was Vincenc Zedrich, do you know, Bubi had a touch of genius, but his mother hated the way he indulged his various passions, buying books and painting … He was always in good spirits, and with his tall, burly
frame and black mustache, Bubi was a charmingly masculine figure. He used to toss flowers through the open windows of his favorite ladies … and to brighten up the gray days of winter, he organized the music at the skating rink. But his dreams of a higher education were dashed by his very own uncle Jan Zedrich on the Corner, a bigoted old bachelor. So Bubi abandoned the idea of going to college and went out into the wide world … and far across the sea. His cousin Emil Zedrich took advantage of Bubi's absence. Emil coaxed and cajoled old Uncle Jan … until his plan succeeded. And that was how Bubi, that good-natured fellow, as people of genius tend to be, wound up with a paltry inheritance. Bubi grew bitter … from then on he only rarely ever walked out the back door of his house, the Old Post Office, into the fields, or worked in the garden. He kept an old manservant, but for the rest lived completely alone. Despondent over the blow fate had dealt him, he reached instead for his revolver and at the age of fifty-six put an end to his life, the life of an unhappy man. The servant found his body in the parlor. He was buried in the old graveyard, not far from the chapel … but I ask you … where is his gravestone today? That headstone, beneath which, only yesterday, lay the urn with his ashes? Cried Mr. Otokar Rykr, in a voice of reconciliation that carried far, he almost seemed to be cheering, the two other old witnesses to old times were about to
continue the story, but Mr. Rykr raised his hand to stop them and went on, more solemnly now … In the old house on the square, on the first floor, lived Mr. Augustin Strohbach with his spouse, Bedřiška, and daughter, Gustina. The house belonged to Mr. Červinka the Cigar. Every day that house was filled with piano playing and dancing. Mr. Augustin Strohbach never missed a single festivity, theatrical performance or concert. His other passion was smoking cigars, though at home he preferred his well-browned meerschaum pipe. Every day, weather permitting, the entire family would go Ostrov … Mr. Strohbach's foresight and solicitude were exemplary, as were his fortitude and equanimity. A practical man, he wrote his own obituary in calligraphic letters, omitting the date, and sent it to his supervisors with the request that in the event of his death his widow and daughter receive a pension, he even wrote the text for the funeral card. He also addressed the envelopes, after his death all his friends and relations received a funeral card addressed to them by the dearly departed himself. A day before he died he had a grave dug for his coffin and instructed his friend Emil Zimmler, Master of Science honoris causa, to check the size of the grave. He died peacefully in January nineteen-hundred-and-seven and was buried in the old graveyard, not far from the chapel, like Bubi. It was said that the deceased, when he felt death approaching,
donned an immaculate black suit and lay down on the sofa, where on the nineteenth of January he breathed his last … Cried and cheered Mr. Otokar Rykr … And every pensioner who looked down from the gallery at the graveyard of the little town, where the tractors were uprooting the last few tombstones, put his hand to his cheek, each time they tore out a tombstone he had the feeling that not only were all his teeth being torn out but his entire jaw. The jittery German woman sat huddled on a bench, staring at the transport of the tombstones, she trembled all over and tried several times to get up from the bench, but each time her legs failed her. Mr. Rykr spread his arms and cried, his voice swelling … This is the end of the golden olden times, where have they taken those tombstones, where are Červinka the Parasol, Červinka the Perch, Červinka the Gimp, Červinka the Lousehead, Červinka the Periwig, Červinka the Greyhound, Červinka Busted, Červinka Koruna, Červinka the Cigar, Červinka Sweatbuckets, Červinka from Upstairs, Červinka Untergleichen? Where is the seating plan for the Last Judgment, Dlabač the Rib Roast, Dlabač Moneybags, Dlabač the Ramrod, Dlabač the Baron, Dlabač Pork Butt, Dlabač the Rogue? Who will miss the tombstones of Votava Pantelone, Votava the Musician, Votava the Useless? Where are the graves of Voháňka Rawhide, Voháňka Laudon, Zedrich on the Corner, Zedrich Bubi, One-Leg Theer, Miss
Taubicová-Holdmytail and all those others who died so long ago … Only my friends and I, we, chroniclers and witnesses to old times, shall guard the contents of that empty graveyard! Cried Mr. Otokar Rykr and the German woman from Pecer groaned each time she tried to get to her feet, finally she managed to stand up on her shaky legs and make her escape, she dragged herself from the gallery to her room, spread out an old tablecloth, tied up her most valuable possessions, ran slowly down the stairs, sat down under the clock in the vestibule, where she waited, fearfully, she had her identity card ready, after a while she changed her mind, listened, and stood up, she put aside her identity card and knotted tablecloth, opened the glass door of the clock case and stopped the clock. It was evening, the clock said twenty-five past seven and the German woman from Pecer sat down again, contentedly, she placed the tablecloth on her lap and showed her identity card to someone who never came … And “Harlequin's Millions” curls around and around the gallery with its fine green tendrils of honeysuckle, I smile and it's all the same to me that the tractors are carting away the last tombstones from the old graveyard in the gleam of their headlights, I sit and think back on that one beautiful spring day, when Francin and Uncle Pepin were delivering bottles of seltzer and soda in the White, that day they were going to drive their refreshing beverages to a little
town where a memorial stone was about to be unveiled for a famous general, they were just setting off when they had a flat tire and Francin had to change it, which made them late. When they finally arrived in the little town they were stopped by a lieutenant of the artillery, who told them it would be better if they waited, in ten minutes there would be a celebratory salute from the row of cannons standing in the ditch, but Francin said it would only take him a couple of minutes to drive past the cannons in the ditch and he had to deliver the soda and seltzer in time for the ceremony. So the lieutenant picked up the receiver of the field telephone and someone on the other end told him the truck full of refreshing beverages could drive through, because the whole little town was waiting for them. And Francin saluted him and the White started off again, he drove slowly, the cannons gleamed in the ditch, the loaders stood in the sunlight next to the muzzles with their ammunition, as they passed the third cannon Francin noticed a couple of auxiliaries kneeling down next to the carriage and securing it to the ground with enormous bolts … And at that very moment the White began sputtering and came to a halt. When Francin later told me the story, he said he'd had an attack of rheumatism right there on the spot, he'd badly needed someone to heat his joints with a soldering iron, he kept his hands on the steering wheel and saw the lieutenant signaling