Humorist and the satirical magazine the Arrow. On each of these targets was written the name of the winning rifleman and the date of the contest. Not far from the wooden restaurant was a round white bandstand. Mr. Procházka had quickly adapted to his new surroundings. In addition to a dog, cat and various birds he also had two tame otters that, or so they say, would bring him fish from the Elbe. I never actually saw them do that, but when he whistled through his fingers the otters came running out of the Elbe and climbed up onto his shoulder, I did see that … He said, and we who had been listening to him all looked to where Ostrov lay in the river, right near the little town, and Mr. Václav Kořínek added enthusiastically … It was just like in the movies. Like the first traveling cinema, a great attraction in those days, they used to show movies in Goatskin Alley, which got its name in the days when livestock markets were held in the streets of the little town. In Saint George Street was a horse market, in Cattle Way, which is now called Long Street, there was a cattle market, and on Na rejdišti or Goatskin Alley, the sheep and goat market. Na rejdišti used to be called Soldier Street, Watertower Street was Russian Street, Church Street, just off the square, went by the name of Broad Street, Court Street was Butcher Street, the street between the houses where the Srajers and the Dolezals lived was called Water Street, because there was a wooden water main running through it that conveyed water from the big mill to the fountain in the square. Kolín Street, where it met the town square, became the Elbe Gate. Tyrš Street was Saint George Street. Eliška Street was once the Lištínská, the little street known as the Post Office was the Lane of Sighs. Long Street was Cattle Way, Cavalry Street, the Ramparts. The Ramparts was Carpenter Street, Malý Val … Little Hungary … But let’s get back to Na rejdišti! cried Mr. Kořínek triumphantly, in March of eighteen-hundred-and-eighty-nine Mr. Kočka arrived here with his traveling anatomical-pathological museum and waxworks, where for only thirty pennies, soldiers for twenty and children for ten, in the booth and menagerie that had been built on Na rejdišti, the townspeople could feast their eyes, according to the advertisements, on a thousand specimens by the most prominent European taxodermists and thirty species of the rarest beasts of prey and hay gluttons … said Mr. Kořínek, rubbing his hands, and suddenly he drew himself up and shouted down to the little town … I could live without a museum or a waxworks, without Kočka’s pathology and anatomy too, but without delicious smells? Every morning on the corner of Fort and Boleslav Streets you could smell the bread from Macháček’s bakery. On winter mornings, after a frost, the bakers set out wooden boards of unbaked rolls in the courtyard, in the freezing cold, and after a while the bakers put them in the oven. This made the rolls nice and crisp and when they came out of the oven you could smell them all the way out in the street. Opposite the bakery, on Cavalry Street, in about the fourth house, the horse butcher and sausage maker Michálek had his little shop. There you could always smell the hot meatloaf his wife divided into generous chunks with a large spoon and gave to the boys who, for only a penny, received this tasty treat in the palm of their hand, they blew on it vigorously and tossed it from one hand to the other. Another interesting shop was that of Mr. Procházka, a wood turner in Boleslav Street. The products he offered for sale smelled of polish and rare and exotic woods. Outside number one-thirty-nine was a display of whips, brooms and fishing rods, the largest of which had a paper carp dangling from its hook as if it had just been caught. Next door, a very unusual smell filled the air outside the shop at number one-thirty-eight, two steps down and you found yourself in the drugstore run by Mr. Šebor, a man with a full, soldierly beard and black-rimmed glasses. Liniments for every kind of pain, inside and out. Grandmothers went there to buy turpentine resin, which was such extraordinary ointment that when you pulled a bandage off a tender spot, a piece of skin sometimes came along with it. Mr. Šebor sold bear grease, hare lard, cocoa butter to prevent chafing and other ointments. On the corner of Boleslav and Long Streets at number one-thirty-six you could smell Mr. Šimáček’s shop, which even in those days had two entrances and sold both dry goods and groceries. On the opposite corner, at number one-thirty-five, was Salomon Klein’s alehouse, where the air smelled of Allasch, Diavolo and Mogador and there was often the figure of some unfortunate drunk lying on the sidewalk. The first house on the square was number one-thirty-one and was owned by sausage maker Bártl. On cool evenings, whenever the shop doors opened, the smell of fresh smoked sausages rushed out and lingered under the arcade. There was another shop that you could smell out in the arcade, and that was number one-twenty-eight, the tobacconist’s. You had to go up two steps to get to the shop, which was owned by Mr. Wehr and was always filled with the smell of tobacco. Back then many people still smoked cigars and took snuff. During the daytime older men smoked long cigars, very occasionally a short one, and on Sundays, a Habano. Young men smoked cheroots. Cigarette smokers, who were in the minority, smoked cheap brands like Ungar, Drama or Sport, or the more expensive Memphis or Sultan. Choosy smokers filled their rolling paper with shag tobacco, a fine-cut blend, golden yellow and sold in tins. At number one-twenty-seven was Mr. Hynek Šípek’s bakery, later owned by Mr. Kulich. In the morning the arcade outside the bakery smelled of fresh bread. Each fragrant loaf had a dark crust, delectable flavor and one imperfection, which was that the mother of a large family would have sliced up more than half of it by suppertime. A little farther down at number one-twenty-six was an apothecary shop. We always held our breath when we opened the glazed door. Inside, moving about silently behind large porcelain jars with Latin labels, was the apothecary himself, he would open one of the jars, dribble something into a small bottle on the scale, add a few drops of distilled water, a pinch of powder, and little boys like us watched in complete silence, eyes like saucers, and were glad when they had been handed their medicine and could get out of there … Where are all those delectable smells, where have they gone, don’t we still have the right to enjoy them?… Shouted Mr. Kořínek, and in his voice you could hear the resentment he bore against the little town where the time of fragrant smells, of good food and spices, of medicines and soaps, had stood still. Mr. Rykr gently squeezed my elbow, he pointed down at the cemetery and said … There below lies our poet Otakar Theer, at the age of seventeen he published a collection of poems called The Groves Where People Dance, under the pseudonym Otto Gulon … This was followed in nineteen-hundred by the collection Journeys to My Self. In nineteen-hundred-and-three the book of short stories and novellas Under the Tree of Love was published … In nineteen-hundred-and-twelve the book of poetry Fear and Hope, a year later the collection Defiance. Otakar Theer’s last poetical work was the ancient tragedy Phaethon. First performed in the Prague National Theater on the thirteenth of April, nineteen-hundred-and-seventeen. Rudolf Deyl as Phaethon, Růžena Nasková and Leopolda Dostalová in the other roles. The play was met with critical acclaim and was a resounding success. But Theer was unable to revel in that success for very long. After the premiere, while hanging wreaths and bouquets he had received in the theater on the walls of his house, he fell from a ladder, suffered internal injuries and was confined to his bed. On the sixth of September he was rushed to Vinohrady Hospital, where on the twentieth of December, after weeks of agony, he died, barely thirty-seven years old … Said the witness to old times Otokar Rykr with emotion, and he leaned over the railing and his voice rang out over the little town … Tell us, why did Karel Hynek Mácha have to help put out a fire and ruin his health and die? Tell us, why did Otakar Theer have to hang wreaths and bouquets all over his house and fall from a ladder and die? Why did our poet Karel Hlaváček have to go running off to Sokol, catch pneumonia, and die?