Civic Affairs, edited by Mr. Florian, who happened to share his name with one of the saints on the plague column. Editor in chief Florian had a wonderful sense of humor. Late one night he was walking back from Hotel Na Knížecí to his house in Boleslav Street, and as he was crossing the square, he heard a night watchman walking down Boleslav Street toward the square and singing a song as he walked, as was the custom in those days … The clock struck twelve, praise God on high! Oh holy Saint Florian, hear our cry … At that same moment Mr. Florian turned the corner where the district council office now stands, and appeared before the night watchman, saying … Here I am! How can I help? The night watchman dropped his lantern and halberd and Mr. Florian had to escort him home, because the night watchman couldn’t get over the shock … I said, laughing, the way I always laughed when the witness to old times Mr. Karel Výborný told it to me. Francin smiled, but also reached for his cap, as if it were about to be blown off by the wind, and at the same time looked at his watch and saw that he had missed the world news, the overview of political events, he stiffened, imagine if something had happened, some meeting between top government representatives, who had exchanged experiences that were less important for either party than for the rest of the world, imagine if at this very moment world peace had been declared, if at this very moment all fighting had ceased, all wars had ended, and the representatives of all people and all races and classes had agreed to come together, that even now those delegations were on a plane, being flown to wherever it was they’d decided to go? That was what Francin dreamt of, he wished for nothing more, that was why he got up at night and listened to the news reports, imagine if everyone had realized that you couldn’t live without peace, that there was no other way … And that was why after every news broadcast, and he listened at least ten times a day, he always had faith that one day he would hear that there was peace on earth … So we walked on, I linked my arm through Francin’s, but at the corner of Tyrš Street I couldn’t help myself and said, pointing … In eighteen-hundred-and-eighty-eight the lawyer Viktor Tangl, born and bred in Lysá, moved into that house, he was always elegantly dressed, with his short pale chestnut beard, monocle and pale spats, like a diplomat, a striking figure on the streets of our little town. In winter he used to go swimming in the Elbe, in a hole he had cut in the ice. It’s very possible that this eccentricity was one of the factors that contributed to his untimely end … I said, and then added … That house belonged to Zedrich on the Corner, just as the old witness Otokar Rykr had told me. But Francin shook his head and said … I know, and then we walked onto the bridge, the beige-colored brewery shimmered in the evening twilight. Francin leaned over the railing and we watched the water flowing quietly below us. And Francin held the seaman’s cap in the air, that renowned cap of Uncle Pepin’s, which for a quarter of a century had sailed from the brewery to the little town, calling at the inns and the pubs where the drinks were served by women, the white seaman’s cap that represented the olden golden times, just like the braid of gold thread along the brim. And Francin held on to the cap and when a gust of wind blew up from the river, he simply let it go, the breeze lifted it slightly and the cap, which had been worn by Hans Albers in La Paloma, went sailing downward, it hovered briefly above the dark, honey-colored water and then landed on its surface and was carried away by the current, toward Hamburg, Hans Albers’s birthplace and the setting of La Paloma, the film Uncle Pepin so loved to imagine himself in … As we walked back to the retirement home, the shops were just closing, the square and the streets were filled with people, I recognized hardly any of them. The shops that once had first and last names were now called Butcher Shop and Unity Department Store, Bakery and Shoe Repair, Tea room and Car Parts. I smiled and was happy that I had been there, that I had been able to see with my own eyes how times had changed, how nearly all the old people were gone and had been replaced by young women and young men, everything was the opposite of what it used to be. Hardly any of the people streaming past were wearing a tie, everyone wore their hair very differently than I used to, or Francin, the pants worn by the young women and girls were quite provocative, they showed their figures to advantage, those jeans, tight in the crotch and around the bottom, it was as if these young women had just climbed out of the water, I noticed that even little girls were wearing jeans, like the adults, everywhere I looked all I saw was young women in tight pants, but what could you do? I noticed that it had become almost impossible to tell who held what position in the little town where time actually hadn’t stood still, in the old days you knew immediately who was a doctor and who was an engineer, who was a shopkeeper and who was a worker, who was a schoolteacher and who was a music teacher, now I’m glad things are the way they are, as I see it people have merged into a few different types, but when I looked at the men that day I couldn’t possibly imagine who they were or what they did. They wore jeans, leather jackets and army shirts, open at the neck, with their flowing hair they looked more like poets, in the old days only exceptional men had such a voluminous head of hair, men who played the violin or were painters or writers, two of whom I knew from photographs: Jack London and Vrchlický … We walked through the little town, I knew this was the time of day when the square and streets were filled with people, but that within the hour the last buses would’ve departed and soon it would be time for supper and then television, the streets would be empty, though you might see someone hurrying by, a couple of latecomers, or a few dozen lucky souls on their way to the pub. Once when an important soccer match was being televised, it was the European Championships, I was walking through the little town, I saw the glowing screens behind the windows, I heard the voice of the man commenting excitedly on what he saw there in Belgrade, I heard the roar of thousands of spectators, eyewitnesses, I was walking through the little town and didn’t meet a soul, the streets were deserted, because everyone was inside watching the soccer match. I can remember, in the days when I was young, in those days you’d see crowds of people walking across the square and through the streets and down Palacký Avenue, just walking, the young people strolled up and down the promenade, but what good is that to me now? I’m a different person in a different place and times have changed, these times have their own special charm, and as I walked along beside Francin, who was horrified by all those new people, I kept silent and in the end I was glad the old times were gone, that along with those times the town paupers were gone too, the barefoot children, and the confused and the homeless who wandered through the square and the little town, like old Mrs. Lašman and Pepin Páclík, Mrs. Lašman slept outside the courthouse, when it snowed she sought shelter in a niche, the old woman thought she was a countess who had millions, but all the rich people who had once distinguished themselves from the rest were gone. I’d been one of them, I always wore clothes that no one else in the little town had, gone were the days of the young men who wore suede jackets and handsome ties and perforated shoes from Kabele’s in Prague, men who knew how to carry an umbrella, there were ten, fifteen of them, in summer the young fellows would strut through the square in their impeccable shirts, their pullovers, during the Feast of the Resurrection it was customary in the little town for every father to buy something new for his children, a suit, a dress, or even just a scarf, but it had to be something new to evoke a sense of rebirth and happiness, I can still remember a square teeming with people and a promenade filled with happy girls and women and boys and young men, but on the outskirts of the little town, things were very different. Today I saw, I had always seen it, but today was the first time it ever really struck me, I could suddenly even make a comparison, I now saw that almost everyone in the little town was wearing what they liked, there was no longer any difference between them and the country girls and boys, even the girls who boarded the bus at the end of the day and rode off from all corners of the little town into the countryside, those country girls were even more tastefully dressed than city girls, but what struck me most was that the children were always nibbling on ice-cream cones, or slices of salami, while in the good old days a simple roll was considered a delicacy, oh I know, there’s no comparison between the rolls you get nowadays and what we had in those days, I know, frankfurters these days don’t compare with frankfurters back then, but nowadays everyone has what they want and in those days things were different, there were some people who had no money for such treats, and I happen to know that when country women sold butter at the market, they bought margarine for their own families and rolls for the children, but the children I’d seen today, and it’s probably the same all over the world, or at least the world that Francin and I still hoped to see someday with the quarter of a million crowns in our savings account, those children are much better off than they used to be, children nowadays, they all have dresses and accessories chosen specially for them by their mothers and relatives, I also noticed that children these days didn’t cry the way they used to, that time certainly hadn’t stood still in this little town for the people I’d seen streaming back and forth across the square and down the streets and avenues, boarding the buses, that their time was now, that the only time that had stood still was the time when I was happy, nearly all my friends and acquaintances had gone to that great promenade in the sky … Where is our distinguised poet Jan z Wojkowicz, the man who healed young girls by the laying-on of hands? Where is the musical minister, who gave such comfort to the mourners around the coffin that they went home smiling? Where is that paunchy waiter Procházka, who always had to be careful not to trip over his saber? Where is the horticulturalist and excellent dancer Vinca Tekl, who dozed off while drinking a beer in Hotel Na Knížecí and never woke up? And where is that gallant butcher and former wrestler Vejvoda? The high priest of the unbelievers, Mr. Rajman? Sexton Podhora, who was so dangerously fond of altar boys? Whatever happened to the mystical shoemaker Homola? The fireman Tonda Staněk, who was so proud of his uniform and who not only put out fires but also knew the best way to subdue his own blazing thirst? And speedy Mr. Rychlík and his sister, where did they end up, those two, who could outwalk every pedestrian for miles around? In what possible heaven is Pepin Jůra, who slit calves’ throats and believed he was doing God’s work? Through what crematorium chimney did the spirit of Oskar Rohr flee, who lost his mind as a result of too much education? Where is Mr. Brabec, the locomotive engineer who was always pulling out his watch and comparing the time to what he heard over the radio? Where has Mr. Štěpán Mušák gone, that hotheaded young hospital inspector with the fluttering mane? And, if he’s still alive, what is he painting now, my great dancing partner and handsome friend, the painter Hanuš Bohman? Who for forty years led funeral processions as director of a funeral parlor? And who am I, whom people once called Andula, like the beautiful actress Andula Sedláčková? I know, I’m a witness to old times too … Where have all my neighbors gone, where are the groups of jobless men who once hung around the brewery in the freezing cold, in the hope that Francin would hire them to transport ice, to chop blocks of ice out of the river and lake and load them onto farm wagons? As we were walking back through the little town, to the retirement home, I saw Francin ogling the young women the way he always did, they were just girls really, whom none could divest of their youthful charm, jean-clad nymphs who looked like mermaids … But Francin, like me, was still living in the little town of the past, he lived in the memory of the time when he was younger, when he was manager of the brewery and decided which barley should be bought for malting, he decided from which company to buy bales of hop, he decided how you could improve beer sales and which publican to hire for a new pub, he’d then become the new pub’s official tax adviser, and that was why he was respected and revered, and he never dreamt that this was exactly why the new owners would accuse him of being the capitalists’ henchman and an advocate of anonymous partnership. By the time we arrived at the gate it was dark, in the porter’s lodge crazy Mr. Berka sat watching a soap opera, from time to time he’d turn off the sound and add his own soundtrack by replacing it with the taped voices of jazz singers, but the words to the songs were completely at odds with what was happening on the screen, and Mr. Berka was enjoying every minute of it, he was amazed at how well he managed to combine the voices on his tapes with the television images. And in fact, as I watched him through the window, while Francin, still preoccupied, went up to his room to turn on the news from around the world and continue grieving over the fact that his vision of lasting world peace was postponed from one day to the next, that’s when I saw that Mr. Berka wasn’t really so crazy after all. One Sunday, when Smetana’s opera