Harlequin's Millions

6

WHEN THE AUTUMN WINDS AND RAIN SET IN, THE retirement home was drenched in torrents of water, “Harlequin’s Millions” softly accompanied the gurgling of the gutters and drainpipes, the water splashed down and seeped behind the plasterwork, because the gutters and drainpipes were full of holes, some had even been torn from the wall, at such moments the castle somehow resembled all those old people, who cleared their throats and then nearly choked in fits of coughing. The three witnesses to old times sat in an alcove near a large window through which you could see the whole town laid out before you, shrouded in mist, the deanery church towering in the rain like an old ship. I walked through the corridors, stopped now and then and looked down at the river, the mists rising from its surface, and behind it, the beige-colored brewery. Yes, it was a good thing that I’d been so proud, that I’d stayed so young and pretty for so long, that I’d loved getting all spruced up, that I’d made clear to everyone who greeted me that I was the wife of the manager of the beige-colored brewery, returned their nods and received their compliments, because I deserved them. And I deserved to be proud of my four rooms, my dresses, my body, each dress was made for me by the finest seamstresses from patterns in Elegante Welt, the dresses always accentuated my hips and breasts, my legs, and the accessories I bought in Prague to go with them, the handbags and shoes, the gloves and hats were the perfect complement to my provocative figure, that’s why I was proud of who I was. And now, here in the retirement home, now that I’d had all my teeth pulled out, now that my hair was grayer than oakum, now that my figure exuded nothing but faded charm and no one could imagine the charm I’d once had, for the first time I was ashamed of my old age, I tried my best, smiling, talking incessantly, to keep others and particularly myself from dwelling on what had happened to me, that I had grown so old, that I was now an ugly old hag … But when I saw how all the old women here in the castle, whom I’d driven to exasperation a quarter of a century ago with my dresses and figure, when I saw how pleased they were to see what had become of me, how it was my turn now, and they made that very clear, they were thrilled with my downfall, they even put on nice dresses just to spite me, they laughed at me, flaunting their false teeth, they swept up their bleached blond hair and reveled in the fact that I was withering away, they reveled at my humiliation and despondence at the lamentable fate that had befallen me and I suddenly realized that just as I had once been proud of my youthful appearance, which I’d kept for so long, I now not only could be, but had

to be, proud that I was who I was. And so I didn’t even try to wear my dentures, even when I had them, nor did I dye my hair to look like everyone else, but became proud of my ugliness, I accentuated everything that made me old … And so I became the woman I once was, a proud old woman who stood out from the rest, just as I had when I rode around on my bicycle and the whole town was dazzled by my beautiful legs, which were like the hands on the face of the cathedral clock. And so it was that wherever I went walking, through the castle or along the footpaths in the park, I walked with my head held high, wearing battered shoes and the cheapest dresses, the kind no one ever wore anymore, cotton, ready-to-wear dresses, which I never ironed, and I don’t know how it came about, but I always ran into the witnesses to old times, who treated me with the utmost courtesy, they gallantly offered me a chair and went to great lengths to tell me everything they knew about the little town where time stood still. “Harlequin’s Millions” softly spun its chintzy, chocolate-box melody, a melody as touching as the music that accompanied a Chaplin film, the witnesses to old times seemed to regard me as a kind of prop, a piece of scenery left over from those bygone days, they’d turn to me and eagerly tell me everything that had happened in their younger years, preferably things they didn’t remember themselves, but which they had heard from their grand-fathers, or knew from their notes, or old books. Today, when the autumn rains set in, I walked back from the castle park, where I had gazed almost lustfully at the statues of young women and men, nude statues that seemed to have risen from the sea, or from clean, clear rivers, when I had absorbed the essence of youth from those statues, my innermost self, because in my time I’d lived just like the heroes and demigods that Count Špork’s sculptors and architects had placed in our garden, when this had cheered me up, I was proud to feel a deep kinship with the statues, proud that they evoked scenes from my youth, my younger years. And when I walked, soaking wet, through the corridors, where my contemporaries sat in armchairs in their slippers, pretending to read and suppressing a persistent cough, I strutted proudly past them, leaving behind a little trail of rainwater that dripped from my cotton dress and shabby shoes, I strutted about, proud of my poverty, my misfortune, my rain-drenched clothes, I saw that I was no different than I used to be. The old women pretended to be reading, to be tying their aprons, to be completely absorbed in a phony conversation, and all this to ensure that I keep on walking and they wouldn’t have to look at me. And I knew that the moment I had passed them by, they would look at me again, look at me with anger and resentment, the way they used to when I rode past on my bicycle and left behind a trail of women’s eyes, envying me … And the three witnesses to old times, sitting under a rediffusion box, when they saw how soaked I was, offered me a chair next to the radiator, they rubbed their hands and looked at me as if I were a young girl, I seemed to inspire them, because what they told me seemed to be intended for me alone, as I sat there with the hot ribs of the radiator in my back and “Harlequin’s Millions” pouring down on us from above, those poignant millions that lent a frayed, doleful, amorous tone to the voices of the three witnesses to old times. And rippling across the ceiling was the fresco of a faun abducting a nymph, the faun’s eyes were drunk with lust, he was naked, he carried fruit in a cloth and the nymph was sure of herself and enjoyed the effect she was having on the faun, who was mesmerized by her naked gymnast’s figure. And I could see that the three witnesses to old times had nothing more to say to each other, they had already told each other everything, they were just waiting for me so they could rally and tell me all the marvelous things they knew. Mr. Otokar Rykr stood up and pointed downward, to where the old graveyard glistened and gleamed with its black marble gravestones, golden crosses, and he said enthusiastically … You should know that the names of all our famous citizens are engraved there in stone, anyone can read them, but without their nicknames no one would know exactly who was buried there. For example, Červinka the Parasol owed his nickname to his sweetheart from the village, to whom he had given a parasol that she brought along with her, in his honor, whenever she came to the little town, she carried it everywhere, rain or shine. Červinka the Perch, who looked out into the world with large, pale eyes, like a fish. Červinka the Gimp, who plodded around his native soil on his big flat feet. And it was inevitable that the Červinka with white flakes in his hair who was constantly scratching himself was called Lousehead! Červinka the Periwig was excessively proud of his luxuriant curls. Tall, bony Červinka the Greyhound never made a secret of the fact that he’d have preferred a different nickname. Another member of this family was the elderly, always impeccably dressed and worldly bachelor and economist Červinka Koruna. For his brother, however, an utter failure in matters of finance, the townsfolk came up with the name Busted. There was also Červinka the Cigar, whose son František Mincemeat died an untimely death. Then there was the barley merchant Sweatbuckets, Červinka-Untergleichen and Červinka from Upstairs … After Červinka, the name Dlabač was a close second. The wealthiest Dlabač was known as Dlabač Moneybags. Another was a retired soldier, the son of Dlabač the Rib Roast, which he pronounced Wib Woast, a butcher whose daughter had inherited her father’s bad pronunciation of the letter