The Drowning Of A Goldfish (11 page)

Verses frame our heads; we breathe slowly, harmoniously. We understand and adore each other; we are beatifically happy
.

Now I have finally acquired it, the salon of my dreams, my kingdom, my citadel: three times per week we come together, a book in our hands.

We understand each other and are happy.

Long since, we have exchanged our Russian textbooks for Chekhov, Gorky, Turgenev, Goncharova, Pushkin, Lermontov.

Above the table, a pair of eyes and a huge white stain loaded with anguish spy on our every word.

Knowledge is freedom.

Freedom is their death.

Vladimír is pleased. The Russian program, his struggling child, once threatening not to make it through its first month, is very much alive and prosperous.

My working day has lengthened; I leave before dawn, I return at night. Every three months—that is the duration of a course and I am paid at that time—I carry a heavy envelope to Rudolf. I do not eagerly await his footsteps in the corridor anymore. I no longer want to run and hide myself in his arms. I hardly ever see him, except on Sundays when I do all the housework, the washing, and everything else that I have not had time for during the week.

While Rudolf continues to mock my presence, he expects his dinner to be there, his socks darned, and the room to be cleaned. The idea of helping me, even though I am working and earning more than he, is unacceptable to him. My timid suggestion that he might pick up a few things from the store on his way home from the hospital utterly offended him.

“You have married a doctor, not a delivery boy, my dear!” he hissed at me through pinched lips.

I don't make a fuss. I don't argue. He is not worth the bother anymore.

My relationship with him has been poisoned; it swells into cancerous forms and threatens to burst.

Every three months, I pass him an increasingly heavier envelope from a hand that is lighter and lighter. I pay him; thus, I owe him nothing. And one day, I shall take back my life and my freedom with it.

The Russian courses in the zoological garden are my favorite ones.

I teach there on Wednesdays after lunch. Then I remain until dusk.

Wednesdays have become days of luxurious fun, the only time I take for rest, days when creatures replace my dearly beloved words.

The zoo of Ustí is in a huge park, perched on a chalky hill, overlooking the town. It offers a panoramic view of the river Labe, flowing demurely under the factory chimneys, and incorporates a romantic, picturesque landscape.

The director of the zoo, a civilized man, has replaced the Belle Epoque cages, a souvenir of the time when the zoo was founded, by large enclosures, where the animals can live protected and supervised lives. They do not seem to be miserable; however, their eyes are dull and extinguished like the eyes of human beings lodged, fed, and cared for by the State in totalitarian countries.

Their skins are stretched over thick layers of fat; their life's interest is limited to feeding, interrupted, from time to time, by petty quarrels between the prisoners, locked in the same enclosure, over who shall be the leader of this impotent herd.

When I ask the director for permission to go near the animals—life outside the enclosure and life within are two diametrically opposed perspectives—he agrees under the condition that I am accompanied by him or one of his employees.

I slip in and head for a corner, trying to be inconspicuous and considerate, not wanting to disturb the animals. I give nothing, I ask for nothing. I am neither on the side of the beast, nor of the guards. In addition, I can come and go as I please. Because of all these exceptions, I become suspect, a subject to be avoided.

I wait patiently and keep still. The animals pretend not to notice me; only the trembling points of their ears, aiming at me, betray their subdued excitement. One day, the curiosity becomes stronger than mistrust and one of the deer comes closer to me.

Slowly, docilely, delicately, signalling my absolute submission, I offer him my palms. He vigorously sniffs my hands, as if taking the first drink after a long thirst. He pushes his muzzle into my face, his breath pervades my nostrils; he licks me diligently. Giving me his odor, he assimilates me.

The tongue of a bear is rough and harsh; the wolf's is like raw silk, while that of a cat is covered with ticklish grains. I have never known the lion's, tiger's and panther's tongues, as they were strictly forbidden to me.

The pigs repel me with their foul odor, the monkeys with their high-pitched voices.

The sharpened beaks of the birds, right out of the paintings of Hieronymus Bosch, irk me.

In every enclosure I feel at ease. In the one with the Siamese cats I am among old friends.

They live in a large, genteel cage, full of trees, from which they observe the world. They dwell in “nests” which they did not build, the nests being offered to them along with the rest. To build one is not part of a Siamese cat's conception of life.

Far from being lazy, Siamese cats are the sovereigns, like my grandfather.

There are twelve of them and one chief: big, handsome, mighty, and friendly, a seal-point, like the others. Any misalliance is inconceivable: noblesse oblige.

The beige of this cat's sleek and rich coat becomes jet black at the top of his ears and at the end of his tail. The mask of his face with its shiny nose is highlighted by the incandescent radiation of his blue almond shaped eyes.

He jumps off the tree and comes to meet me. His body is shifting like the dunes of sand on the beach by a bottomless ocean. He stops in front of me, motionless; each muscle slackened in limitless repose.

Stricken by the sharpness of his regard, I stand still. Drawn by the marvel of his flawless beauty, I recognize myself in the sparkling surface of his eyes.

Like lovers, we sink slowly into each other.

One Wednesday, when I enter the director's office, where our course usually takes place, I notice on my seat a wicker basket with two arch-like handles, covered with a red cloth, tied carefully with a golden ribbon.

Everybody is watching me, smiling in anticipation.

“Sit down, Comrade. Do open the basket. It's for you.”

I untie the ribbon, the cloth flies away. A white flash—Siamese kittens are snow-white—jumps up onto the table, rushes out under the chairs and disappears under the desk. From there it starts to hiss menacingly at me. The fear of this little female hides under her courage.

In the end, with the help of everyone present, we succeed in catching her: fifteen disgraceful ogres against a fleeing silky cloud.

I hold the kitten in my arms; she spits and hisses desperately in my face. She doesn't want me, is terrified of me, and prefers to stay with her own lot in the cage.

“You are very kind. It was a well-planned surprise. But don't you see that she wants to stay with her own family?”

“Comrade, what do you think? We can't keep all the kittens! Be reasonable; if you don't want it, it will have to be put to sleep.”

“You'll see. It will get used to you. Look, it's so cute! We have chosen the most perfect cat for you, possessing a spotless pedigree. You can present her at any cat show and not be disappointed.”

I think very little of cat shows. I laugh at the suggestion that “my” cat could be a winner. I want her to be happy in her comfortable cage, much superior to my tiny, shabby room.

I am obstinately silent. Holding the kitten in my arms, I give her to the director. I cannot believe that he could do this little wonder any harm.

“Well, there is nothing left to do. Do you know how many cats are born in a year? I can't let the zoo be overrun with them.

“Too bad. We wanted to surprise you. Otherwise, we would have put this kitten to sleep right after birth with all the others. Now, it will be more difficult.”

Pushed into a situation where I have no choice, I cradle the kitten in my arms, holding her tight so that she can feel my warmth and my love.

Like me, she has no choice. Her survival depends on the two of us being united.

This time, I return home as soon as the course is over with Iris—this is what I call her because of her limpid eyes. She is pressed against my heart, hidden under my coat.

I am getting prepared for a long and violent battle.

“
Cats do not belong in a city. Firstly: It is not hygienic. Secondly: They are not happy there
.”

But this time, I shall be the winner!

I run at full speed through the corridors of the cancer pavilion.

Let us hope that Iris will not mew, that we will reach my room unnoticed. I caress her, and try to calm her.

The ball of fluff under my coat remains rigid with hate.

I open the door and gently put Iris down: like a flash she runs for cover behind the wardrobe.

I stretch out on my stomach in front of her hiding place. Explaining our situation, I tempt her with food and invite her to go wherever she likes. I promise her that she will not be bothered and, if she does not wish to, she need not take me into consideration.

In my distress, I do not notice that Rudolf is standing behind me, looking down on me with cold, unbelieving irritation.

“What are you doing on the floor?!

“Are you crazy or what?!”

His voice is icy and I would like to become tiny, creep under the wardrobe like Iris, hide there, and disappear from Rudolf's eyes.

I try to swallow but my throat clams up. I know that it is my life which is at stake along with that of Iris. If I betray her, if I cannot defend her, I am finished; permanently and forever.

Quickly, I jump up and confront Rudolf. Not a single quivering muscle betrays me as I stare at him.

“I received this cat and I intend to keep it!”

Rudolf watches me. He cannot believe his own eyes. Stunned, he opens his mouth, then closes it—a carp, deprived of its element. He wants to say something, but he doesn't know what. The situation is quite new and unforeseen.

“That's an interesting bit of news!” he says after a long hestitation.

“I presume you know that cats are not allowed in a hospital because of hygiene. If they kick us out, you'll know where to go?”

Naturally, I am aware of all that. I know that it is impossible to find a flat, that there are families with four children, their mother ill with tuberculosis, living in a single room for years, waiting to be housed.

Of course, everything is clear.

But there are moments when madness becomes reasonable and the aberration of a free mind preferable to the wisdom of a slave.

“Look, we are not there yet, Rudolf. I don't see how I could be suspected of keeping a cat, living with you, a man of circumspection,” I say calmly as I move towards the kitchen to prepare our dinner.

My way of life does not change. I teach Russian, I do the housework.

However, there is one difference: I return home, not only in the evening, but at every free moment. I try hard to be accepted by Iris, who obstinately rejects me. Her disdain is dense and irrevocable.

She leaves her hiding place only when I am not there. She eats what I have put into her dish and then sits down at the window on bare wood, refusing the cushion that smells of her captor. She dreams of escape.

I know the rules of the game; I understand them, but I cannot accept them. Neither of us wants to lose; we both want to keep our independence.

The balance of our relationship is fragile and uncertain. I do not want to suppress her by imposing my will. I offer her friendly coexistence to make the best of a deadlock.

My dream of living with a cat has come true. However, a dream and its realization are not one and the same thing. Reality is never perfect and maybe it is best that way.

If dreams come true down to the last detail, it is an absolute state and then the END has come. Development stops, the dream petrifies and changes its essence. The absolute state is death. I am conscious of this, so I try to stop the dream in time. If my imagination offers me something more perfect than reality, I can assimilate it, take out the essential values, and put the ideal in its place. My imagination can accommodate this in perfect harmony.

A life together differs from a solitary existence. It is a constant struggle between two realities and two imaginations which blot out each other. If either dominates, it entails the destruction of both.

If I win over Iris, I shall make her forget her life as a free cat in the company of others. She will forget the white moon above the sepia trees, the langorous wooing of the tomcat inviting her to secret games.

If I win over Iris, I shall no longer need her. A slave can never be a companion.

I stop courting.

I assume my responsibilities towards her, seeing that she has all her needs met. We keep ourselves apart and interfere with one another as little as possible.

Now, Iris starts to come out from the closet even in my presence. She sits down on the windowsill, her large, steady eyes fixed on the trees and the sky. Her solitude is animated by her past, which is becoming more and more remote every day. I have to be ready for her in case she decides to compromise and accept my company. Because I made her enter my life, any pride on my side would be pure vanity.

It is easy to be generous. For the first time in my life, I am quite at ease. I am earning a living by doing a job that I like and that fulfills me. It suits my nature, and I have my place in society. I am useful and therefore happy. I can communicate with people and have succeeded in getting out of my isolation. I look forward to each of my courses, from the basic one, where I teach spelling, to sophisticated literary analysis.

From a simple worker to the director of the Chemička, from a little secretary to the regional prosecutor of Ústí, all the participants are my friends, each of them is my equal.

My dream of studying French literature at Charles University in Prague is dozing at the back of my mind. It is always there but its immediate realization does not seem so pressing any more. One is free to choose one's own values and to alter them, as long as one does not change their substance.