Harlequin's Millions (19 page)

went to bed, so that the next morning he could pump water into the barrel, which leaked right out again, just as before he had pumped up those two meaningless tires, which Francin would deflate every night, to keep Pepin alive a bit longer, even though his life had no more meaning, like time itself, which had stood still on the church tower when the hands fell off the clock and stopped moving, because in the little town a time had come for other people, a time full of élan and new endeavors, a time that gladly demolished all that was old, it was the time of a new generation that couldn't give a damn that the time of cattle markets and Christmas markets and farmers' markets had stood still, that the time of afternoon strolls and evening promenades was long gone, that political parties no longer organized outings to the forest, outings combined with raffles and picnics and shooting galleries, gone were the days of Carnival balls and festive dance parties and horseback rides through the countryside, gone were the masquerades and allegorical processions and the winter Bacchus and Carnival parades, gone were the days of beautification associations and their competitions for the best painted windows in town, there were no more plays, time had stood still in all five of our little theaters, gone were the days of the Sokol festivals and summer gymnastics camps, where starting at four o'clock in the afternoon the young gymnasts, first the pupils and then
the juniors, displayed their skills, gone were the days of men's and women's evening calisthenics, in that little town of ours no one could bring back the time when the symphony orchestra and choral societies played and sang to their hearts' delight, the processions of pensioners walking through the municipal park on Ostrov, the pairs of lovers by the river and in the streamside forest, they had all vanished, no more graduation parties, not a single pub where people still made time for betting games, not a single pub where women served the drinks, gone were the days of the famous white pudding and sausages that the smokehouse workers delivered to the pubs at four in the afternoon and the Mariáš players would lay down their cards and buy themselves a sausage and a roll, gone were the days of singing while doing the carpentry work and the malting, you never heard a barrel organ outside your window anymore, everything that was old and connected with the old days had been lost in the flow of the hands on the church clock, or fallen into a deep sleep, as if those old times had choked on a piece of poisoned apple like Snow White, but no prince ever came or ever will, because the old society, the society that Francin, Pepin and I belonged to, is so old that it no longer has any strength or courage, and that's why it's no wonder that a time has come of huge posters and huge meetings and huge parades that raise their fist at everything old, and
the old people themselves are defenseless, they live on memories or die quietly and slowly, like Uncle Pepin, like Francin or I if we had been in the same situation. And so we walked on through the twilit streets of the little town, we were approached by a shaggy-haired youth wearing a colorful shirt and denim jacket, he pointed to the seaman's cap on Francin's head and asked … Sir, will you sell me that amazing cap, I'll give you a hundred crowns for it … Francin grabbed hold of the cap with both hands, as if the wind were trying to make off with it, and shook his head. The young man asked again … please, I'll give you two hundred, two hundred-crown notes … But Francin said … Not even five hundred, not even a thousand. And the young man shrugged and walked away, we were standing in the square, I could tell that all Francin really wanted was to go home, to the castle, to his little room, it was time to listen to the news from around the world, the news he'd been following for twenty, thirty years, and this was how I'd always known him, a man deeply involved with the rest of the world, this little town meant nothing to Francin, while I was falling more and more in love with its past, with what was no longer there. I didn't even need the three old witnesses to go walking with me anymore, the old gentlemen who had told me so much about everything that had happened here so long ago, all I had to do was look around me and I could see the evening
of Sunday the thirteenth of December, eighteen-hundred-and-thirty-five, it was bitter cold, but the windows of the Black Eagle shone brightly on the corner of the square and Church Street, the butchers' guild was there celebrating the election of a new president … The master butchers raised their splendid guild goblets and drank a toast: God bless you, the Lord God will, God will, God will, God bless you! On the goblet was a picture of a butcher in a white apron with his cudgel aimed at the forehead of an ox, next to that a picture of a dog. At eight o'clock in the evening, after night watchman Štolba, the master potter from the Bobnitzer Gate, had sounded the hour, he came along to the gathering. He sat down by the door and after a hearty supper and frequent servings of beer, coffee and punch had turned red as a beet. After a while he took off his fur coat and was seeing double. But his conscience bothered him and he went outside, into the square. He shuffled past Vštečka's pharmacy, Dominik Hovátko's dry goods, Jan Fleischmann's house and Josef Seigerschmidt's shop and found himself standing in front of Café Klecanský, where they were just changing the post horses. The night watchman staggered toward the postal coach and saw that the door had been left ajar. There was no one inside. He put his halberd on the ground and climbed into the coach, then closed the door behind him and soon fell asleep on the cushioned seat. He
didn't even wake up when the fresh horses set off at a trot for the nearby town of Loučeň. No one got on there, and so the coachman, thinking the coach was empty, continued all the way to Mladá Boleslav. There the night watchman awoke, when the postal coach stopped in the main square, and quickly climbed out of the coach. Realizing he had neglected his duty, he began blowing his horn. Suddenly a pair of police hands seized him from behind. What's all this honking? I'm just doing my duty, after all I'm the night watchman of the majestic little town where time stood still! I told this to Francin, who smiled, I told him that story, which the old witness Mr. Václav Kořínek had told me at least ten times. But I could see that Francin had his mind on solving all the political crises in Europe and Asia, Africa and America, he was busy contemplating the fact that foreign armies had invaded some peace-loving state, or a news report he'd just heard, that there had been yet another border change, another assassination attempt on a prime minister, another session of the World Peace Council, another oil tanker accident that posed yet another threat to clean oceans, animals, fish and marine birds, another cordial meeting where opinions were continually exchanged about which no one would ever hear anything substantial. I was finished with my story, and pointed to the district council office on the corner. In our little town they published a weekly
called
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