‘Here, in the fridge.’
‘We’re Wellness Centre staff, we have priority,’ explained Willowy.
‘What about a crematorium?’ asked Beba.
‘In Prague. But even there the dead usually go into the oven in coffins. No one’s going to burn them in just a sheet.’
‘Only Indians are burned in just a sheet,’ said Willowy.
‘Do you mean no one ever dies here, for God’s sake?’ asked Beba.
‘We’re a Wellness Centre!’
‘I give up! Lukas, Martin, Indians, I don’t understand a thing!’ said Beba angrily.
‘We don’t understand you either. What were you thinking of dragging an old woman about with you, and never thinking that she could snuff it? And in a foreign country as well!’
Willowy probably wanted to say ‘shame on you’ or something like that, but restrained herself at the last moment, and instead said:
‘I’d never drag my mother about, not on my life!’
‘You’re not very kind, the two of you, you know,’ said Beba.
‘If I was kind I’d have popped my clogs long ago!’ Willowy snapped.
‘The conditions we live in, certainly,’ said Linear vaguely.
‘This is absolutely intolerable! You girls really know how to help a person!’ snorted Beba.
‘Let’s go, we’ll think of something,’ said Kukla, dragging Beba by the sleeve.
‘Think of something, only quickly! Our fridge isn’t large. It’s Thursday now. We can keep her till Monday morning maximum. Other people die as well, you know,’ said Linear, biting her tongue. ‘I mean it does happen once in a while, like now for instance,’ she added.
‘We’re a Wellness Centre!’ Willowy leapt in, pronouncing wellness centre with particular reverence, as though it were a matter of divine law.
‘Fuck you and your Wellness Centre!’ Beba shrieked, exasperated. She only ever swore in English, and the only English swear words she knew were ‘fuck you’.
We should add that we have had to translate this conversation into a language everyone could understand, because in reality it took place in a mixture of Czech and Croatian: that is Linear and Willowy spoke Czech, and Kukla and Beba Croatian. In fact Kukla did try to set her completely forgotten knowledge of Russian in motion, but all that emerged from her mouth was Russified Croatian. Linear and Willowy snorted at it. The Russians, it seems, had got up their noses.
What about us? We’ll keep going. Life drags as heavy as lead, while the tale just keeps racing ahead.
4.
A glance at the audience sitting in the lecture hall filled Dr Topolanek with a wave of anger, and, immediately afterwards, a wave of self-pity. He, who endeavoured to give this whole health business its rightful aura of scholarship, could not believe his eyes. The audience consisted not of guests from the hotel, but three local old ladies whom he knew well.
Dr Topolanek, who always carried a little whistle with him, placed the whistle in his mouth and blew it. The old ladies woke up and clapped. Topolanek gave them a little test: he read out loud the shopping list that his wife had thrust into his hand that morning. The old ladies began to snooze at the very beginning of the list, somewhere between ‘a loaf of bread’ and ‘a pint of milk’. Topolanek put the whistle back in his mouth. The old ladies gave a start.
‘Mrs Blaha, what are you doing here?’
‘Can I be honest, doctor?’ the old lady asked.
‘Go on,’ said Topolanek ironically.
‘The children have worn me out with cooking and cleaning, so I’ve come to have a little rest. Besides, you’ve got that air-refreshing thing here…’
‘Air-conditioning!’ said Topolanek. ‘What about you, Mrs Vesecka, why are you here?’
‘I came with her,’ said Mrs Vesecka, pointing to Mrs Blaha.
‘What about you, Mrs. Čunka?’
Mrs. Čunka snored.
‘Mrs. Čunka!’
Mrs. Čunka gave a start.
‘I’m asking you what you are doing here.’
‘Doctor, that list you read us a moment ago… When you come to buying the tomatoes… Pan Šošovicky has better and cheaper tomatoes today than the ones in the supermarket.’
Topolanek sat down and held his head in his hands. Although his defeat was patently obvious, his nature, fortunately, was not that of a loser. Topolanek may not have been distinguished by a superabundance of backbone, but he was not malicious, and there was only one thing he could not live without – dreams. Topolanek was a child of his transitional times, and no one could blame him for having dreams that were money wise or at least tried to be. Yes: he would fill the hall with local people. The local people ought also to be included in wellness tourism. Once a month every member of the community would have one free session in the Wellness Centre! If they had recently discovered in the south of China old men of a hundred and twenty who were growing a third set of teeth, old women who had begun to menstruate again and whose faces were speckled with adolescent acne, then why should the miracle of the third age not happen here as well, in this Czech spa? He would found, the very next day, a local club for the battle against ageing, which would be called ‘Third Teeth’. He was already inventing titles in the leading international newspapers about a newly discovered source of youthfulness in the heart of ancient Europe. And a museum, there would certainly have to be a little local museum, the Museum of the History of Longevity. And he would found an amateur dramatic society. Every year the society would put on a production of Čapek’s play The Makropulos Case. The play would stimulate public discussion, should Makropulos’s recipe for longevity have been burned or not. Yes, thanks to him, Dr Topolanek, the spa town would bloom with ever more beautiful and varied flowers.
As he looked at the three creatures in the audience, Dr Topolanek was overcome with sudden tenderness.
And, what do you know, Mrs Blaha’s grey hair began to darken, the lines on Mrs Vesecka’s face melted away as though they had never been there and Mrs. Čunka’s false teeth fell out of her mouth, because new teeth had begun to grow. In the audience sat three young, vigorous women in relaxed poses, snoring loudly.
What about us? While life may land us in a dreadful plight, the tale speeds to be home in daylight.
5.
Towards evening, Kukla and Beba met in the hotel lobby with the intention of walking through the town and clearing their heads. As they left the hotel and Beba was glancing aim lessly around, she bumped into a young man entering the hotel holding his small daughter by the hand. The young man was English and apologised pleasantly to both of them, as though it were his fault. While Kukla, who was in charge of English language requirements, took it on herself to apologise to the young man, Beba involuntarily took in some details. The young man was handsome, tall, elegant, with grey eyes, ash-coloured hair, a disarming smile, while the little girl, the little girl was… hm, presumably Chinese. The little girl, who was holding a small puppy in her arms, watched Beba with wide-open eyes, in wonder.
‘…if you will insist on rushing around like a headless chicken!’ Kukla grumbled a little later.
‘It’s not as if I knocked him over!’ Beba defended herself.
‘Honestly, you barge about like a tank!’
‘So what? I didn’t do him any harm!’ said Beba, adding caustically, ‘besides, at least I choose the people I knock over! They’re always handsome young men, and not worn-out seventy-five-year-olds!’