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13 LUCY AND POLLY
RATHER LIKE ME, mine host Mr Novák was an odd individual. There were days when he would be welcoming to his patrons, smiling, shaking everyone’s hands, his patrons would bring little somethings for his wife: flowers, a basketful of orange birch boletes, in winter white puddings and celebration soup after they’d slaughtered a pig, then a chunk of smoked pork, and all because he served a fine pint, and when he was in a good mood, he’d ask someone to bring a hare or deer and then put on a feast… all in all, on a good day, he was second to none as publicans go, when his missus was making dumplings, the kitchen windows had to be shut so the dumplings didn’t catch cold, when they brought him his week’s supply of meat direct from the abbatoir, he would lay each piece out on the vast kitchen table and inspect them all with great satisfaction, feasting his eyes on the meat and already speculating what each piece might go on, and when he was in an exceptionally good mood, he would immediately cut slices from a leg of pork and then he’d be round shortly with escalopes quick-fried in butter and drizzled with lemon juice. And when he was having one of his wonderful days, which were getting increasingly rarer, he’d bring round potato fritters, and his speciality was bull’s testicles egg-and-breadcrumbed like Wiener schnitzels and served with tartar sauce. During such times he would sit around with the customers, putting an arm round their shoulders and looking straight at them and taking bookings, and in the evenings his beautiful wife would get her apron and also come and sit with the customers, and we were all happy that at last we had a decent licensee. They had two children, a boy, Vráťa, aged five, who liked to sit on the customers’ laps and nuzzle up to them like a stray kitten, then he also had a tubby ten-year-old daughter, Mílka, who, despite her vast proportions, had the single ambition of becoming a dancer, and so whether in the garden or inside the pub she was always dancing, with a veil or without, and as you approached the Keeper’s Lodge pub-restaurant down the drive, you could see from a distance the two children, the tubby dancer, dancing just for her own pleasure, completely immersed in an ungainly gymnastics, a ballet of gawkiness. The first year, as Christmas was approaching, well, it was absolutely wonderful in our restaurant, ab-so-lute-ly! Franta Vorel brought a spruce for the kitchen, then he cut down a pine for the saloon, in the run-up to Christmas Eve the whole pub helped decorate the tree and meanwhile Mr Novák came round with the brandy and kirsch and that fabulous beer of his, his missus brought in the Christmas cookies, and nearly all the patrons reciprocated with a box of their own cookies from home, and so no one was in any mood to leave before closing time, or even then, and Mr Novák said that they were all his guests, so he locked up and then those wonderful days carried on behind locked doors. Following Christmas Eve, there was Christmas Day and Boxing Day, the guests had their set places, around and among the beer glasses Vráťa laid out his toy railway and the train ran clickety-clack over the tables that had been pushed together, the Christmas tree was a blaze of light and the children sat on everybody’s lap, turn and turn about, snuggling up under the patrons’ chins, and we were all in heaven, because it had been a long, long time since we’d had a publican like Mr Novák. But my reason for liking him was that he loved the cats Lucy and Polly, the two tabbies followed him everywhere, they did everything with him, when he went to the shops through the forest, Lucy and Polly went with him, when the pub closed at two and Mr Novák went mushrooming after lunch, the cats went with him, when he went into the cellar to broach a cask, Lucy and Polly also went with him, when he went to bed, the cats slept with him, and as he sliced and chopped vegetables and meat and got on with the cooking in the kitchen, the cats would sit on the window sill and watch Mr Novák lovingly, and Mr Novák knew, and every now and again, knife in hand and wearing his white apron, he went over to the window, bent to the cats’ level and exchanged head-butts with them, like clinking liqueur glasses when he toasted his customers in the evening. And the cats, Lucy and Polly, like Mr Novák’s children, began wandering among the customers and, just like Vráťa a Míla, they liked to sit on a customer’s lap, curled round on their knees and beneath their protective hand, until such time as the customer rose, and the cats, having wearied of being stroked by humans, would curl up in winter behind the enamel stove and sleep a sweet sleep, and sigh and stretch and expose their brindled gingery tummies, and it was if the entire pub was their mother, they would pat the air with their front paws, trample the air from which they would suck sweet, non-existent milk in the form of cigarette smoke and the chatter that rose and fell into the silence of the inn, silence betokening the flight of an angel passing through, sometimes what rose was shouting and swearing and cursing, other times confused blather and singing, but Lucy and Polly knew that none of it was meant against them, but that it was all part of the music of the inn that was their home. So Lucy and Polly would amble past the chairlegs, miaow, and a customer would open the door for them and they would go outside into the wonderful air of the forest, they would sit on the low wall round the terrace or hop up on one of the red chairs and gaze into the sun or the rain so that anyone coming to the inn… so they could welcome them by rubbing against their trouser leg, or just by giving them a look-over, fondly weighing the new arrival up, and almost every one would stroke them, or say something to them, Lucy and Polly became the livestock of the Keeper’s Lodge, and by turns they would come inside as the fancy took them, or go back out for a run or a rumble in the oakwood. But Mr Novák also had days when every plus became a minus, suddenly his ears would be pinned back like those of a horse about to snap, he wouldn’t bring the beer to the tables, and if he did, then with some snide comment, he wouldn’t serve food, but if he did it was cold, on days like that he wouldn’t sit among his patrons, but lean against the bar counter and stare at them grimly, then suddenly he’d start addressing people by their surnames, though he was on first-name terms with all of them, and one time when he was going through such a phase, we’d gathered on the concrete road in front of the restaurant and there on the inside was a sign: