The Drowning Of A Goldfish Read online

  His eyes move back and forth, his eyelids flutter.

  Ah! The redeeming side of an irritating problem!

  Now he knew how to make use of me! From this moment on, he would confiscate every penny I earned, even checking my working hours.

  In order to avoid “any possible fraud,” he would set up a new column in his account book: the revenue of my Russian courses.

  He would excel in this to such a degree that, one day in the remote future, when the accountant of the newspaper where I would work as journalist, would forget to pay me for one of my articles, Rudolf would phone the office to inquire about it, thinking that I had embezzled money from him.

  When Grandmother used to go to the market, it was the servant, accompanying her, who would pay.

  “A lady never touches something as vulgar as money, my little girl,” Grandmother divulged to me confidentially.

  My attitude towards money is quaint: like a primitive, I prefer an exchange of goods to outright buying.

  For English lessons, my hair is done.

  For French lessons, my clothes are custom-made at one of the fashion houses in Prague.

  I offer and I receive.

  I am fair with others, others are fair with me.

  Society and I live in a heavenly equilibrium.

  Rudolf does not understand my economical-emotional transactions; I should add that I exchange only with friends.

  Rudolf is of a voracious and gluttonous species. He sinks his claws into his prey and slinks off into solitary shadows to devour it all by himself.

  He takes everything and gives nothing in return. Of course—as he never forgets to mention—when he married me, he gave me his name and the social protection that goes along with it.

  “What a fool to ruin my career by marrying the daughter of a banker?!

  “It wasn’t pleasant dragging crates filled with chemicals, was it?! Or have you already forgotten?!”

  Rudolf quickly forgot his initial motives for marrying me. The role of Savior of my little life pleases him enormously. His admiration for his own generosity is unbounded.

  He sits, a glass of red wine in his hand, the bottle in front of him, his eyes more and more distant, moist and sentimental, basking in the waves of his stupefying generosity.

  The theme of his alcoholic meditations never changes:

  No sin is more repellent than ingratitude and he wants to be dead-sure that, in spite of my “horrifying faults,” I shall never fall as low as that.

  The drone of his voice, resembling more and more the buzzing of flies feasting on a decaying carcass, fills me with a sickening disgust.

  Rudolf raises his glass, a contented grin smears across his face, his head rolls back, his swollen belly protrudes in his unbuttoned trousers, his hand falls, the remainder of the wine stains the armchair.

  The lesson is over.

  I leave at five-thirty.

  The town, pulled from a gray slumber, groans in irritation. Drowsy people with puffy, pillow-creased faces shake off their torpor to the rhythm of the crowded trams.

  I swing with them, adapting myself to the cadenced intervals and rest in the warmth of their heavy, worn-out bodies. I become one of the crowd; my mind structured and reassurring.

  At each stop, a human wave bursts its banks, raises me up, lowers me down, finally spitting me out at the front of the Chemička, the largest chemical factory in Czechoslovakia. Here I teach Russian every day: from six to seven-thirty to the factory workers, from eight to nine-thirty to the office employees, from nine-thirty to eleven to the management.

  Swept along with the crowd through the entrance of the factory, I flash my passcard which gives me the right to be like anybody: not a “dangerous spy,” not an “enemy of the working class,” but a little ant among the two thousand species of ants, an ant who can participate in the life of the colony, quite a brave little ant, carrying on its back a load heavier than itself. Its character is tough, its spirit is good, its zeal can serve as an example.

  The shop floor is on two levels. It is a vast, long, and narrow space. The columns, supporting the stained glass roof, as well as the spiral staircase, are of wrought iron. Built at the Belle Epoque, it marks an era where industry let itself be inspired by art.

  On the lower level, the workers in blue overalls are running about, pushing wheelbarrows, emptying and refilling them.

  The next moment, they suddenly disappear, blown away by the ice-cold draft.

  On the upper level, chemicals boil in huge vats; acidic vapors rise to the roof, covered with a yellowish film. The pungent, invasive, sour smell invades my nostrils and distorts my mouth.

  Lost and helpless, I do not know where to go.

  Some workers notice me and signal me to advance.

  The small classroom is situated behind the shop floor. Everyone is present, seated at a brown wooden table, the Russian textbooks placed in front of them, hands folded on their knees. Their overalls are still clean; the first shift has just started.

  I look at them. They look at me.

  I say “Hello.” They reply in unison: “Hello, Comrade Instructor.”

  Our relationship is straightforward: We are here to show our good will. Docilely they are following company policy. I am earning my living and nourishing the hope that I may enter the University some day.

  I introduce myself, open the book, we begin to spell the first letters of azbuka. I pronounce the words, they repeat after me: papa, mama, fabrika.

  They open their mouths, the words come out … Full, round, soothing: father, mother, factory.

  A little girl, with a large book in her arms, is lost.

  The book is real, the pictures are real but the words rub their black feet contemptuously on the white paper.

  Turn them as you like, they will tell you nothing.

  Grandmother is cooking the dinner; Mother is out; Father is working in his office.

  Grandfather is sitting at his desk, hunched over his stamp collection. One must not disturb him. This I know for sure.

  I approach him like a kitten moving to a steaming bowl of milk. Standing on my tiptoes, I look over his shoulder:

  Has he finished yet?

  Timidly, I give a little cough, I balance on one foot and then on the other. I try to make myself noticeable.

  Grandfather does not move. His back is turned, his hand is travelling from one stamp to another. He is completely absorbed in his own world.

  What shall I do?!

  I lift my hand and pull the sleeve of his jacket.

  Stunned by my own impudence, I close my eyes and make myself tiny as I retreat towards the door, preparing to flee before his wrath ignites.

  “Grandfather, please, teach me how to read …”

  He lifts his head and looks at me. He is so handsome! Not a speck of dust nor a hint of stain mark his gray suit. The flower in his buttonhole is as fresh as a spring morning, his pink pearly fingernails shine on his delicate hands.

  Grandfather’s eyes return from a distant land and he appraises me. He finds me worthy of his attention.

  “You know, it is not so simple. You must be zealous, and concentrate. Are you ready to do it?”

  I nod vigorously.

  “Grandfather, I shall do anything you wish, I’ll even take my cod liver oil every morning … if you will only, please, teach me how to read!”

  We are sitting at the table. Their heavy, massive heads, pitted by chemical vapors and fatigue, pores blocked with grayish dust, are bent over the books: papa, mama, fabrika …

  I am no longer there to simply earn my living and with it entry to the University. And they are not just automatically following company policy.

  We are there to learn how to read.

  The next course from eight to nine-thirty takes place in the administrative building, a dull construction, built after the war.

  The cultural center of the factory is located there.

  The front wall is decorated with the portrait of the
President of the Czechoslovak Republic, flanked on the left by the portrait of Lenin, on the right by an imposing white stain of gigantic dimensions—where the portrait of Stalin once was.

  The table, covered with a red tablecloth, is surrounded by brown, lacquered wooden chairs. A lot of well-watered plants are aligned on the windowsill.

  Ten people turn their heads when I enter. One of them steps forward to me, shakes my hand, and introduces me to the other participants.

  “This is Comrade Velenská, our new instructor. Pleased to meet you, Comrade.”

  Politely, I bow my head and smile at the secretaries and engineers; the majority are women, all of them well-dressed and groomed.

  Here, night has already gone, fatigue has been dissipated with the third cup of strong, black coffee.

  Here, one does not learn how to read. We have all taken the same Russian exam before graduating high school. The engineers have, in addition, spent twelve terms reading Russian in college.

  Our ages are within a range of five years and I am among the youngest. My task will not be a simple one.

  They watch me and wait. Their silence clutches my throat, sticking my lips together. I have to do something before I shall be completely paralyzed.

  I exert a concentrated effort and, in despair, gather the energy to pull myself out of this morass.

  I squeeze the book in my sweaty hands, its familiar shape reassuring me.

  I unlock my jaw and sounds begin to leave my mouth: they are soft and smooth.

  “Pojalsta, otkroite knigu na stranitce dvadcatj pjatj (Please, open the book to page twenty-five).”

  We begin to read.

  With loving tenderness, I caress each word as I pronounce it. I build an insurmountable barrier around myself, my magic castle, suspended in the air. Here I utter groups of phrases so that they can follow, joining me in the magical world of words, where Chekhov tells of the lady with the little dog, who walks with him on the beach of a melancholic ocean, whose waters drown the febrile human agitations in their bottomless pit.

  Out of breath, I finish my reading. I smile, inviting, with a welcoming gesture, the most charming of them to follow me.

  “It is your turn to read, Comrade.”

  My ambition to be a widow at Senokosy—the sweet dream of my childhood—changes dramatically in my teens. Under the influence of Mlle. de Scudéry, a 17th century feminist writer, my aspiration metamorphoses: I am striving to be the inspired hostess of a literary salon, imagined to the smallest detail.

  Intricate silvery objects, sink into lush black velvet, carpeting the space with rounded corners.

  A soft, seeping light descends from the domed ceiling, projecting pearly stars on the ebony furniture, placed on a huge wolf skin.

  We nestle in the depths of soft silk cushions, sipping exotic teas from delicate translucent china.

  While nibbling at delicious almond cookies, we read literature …

  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.