The Drowning Of A Goldfish Read online

  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.

  “The mind cannot be clear if the character is corrupt,” says Saint Augustine, and that is what I believe.

  Life modifies me, but I remain the same: I still think that there is a chasm between Good and Evil and even if the world ridicules me as an eccentric, I must have the courage to be what I am.

  One day, while browsing through a newspaper, I come across an advertisement:

  “The Institute of Russian Language and Literature invites candidates to apply. Once accepted, students may choose full-time or correspondent status.”

  I turn the pages; the newspaper feels like it is burning in my hands. Obsessively, I think of nothing, but this ad.

  “The Institute of Russian Language and Literature …”

  What if I tried, if this time I was successful, if I took Russian, while waiting for French …?

  What if I wrote to the Institute, requesting details?

  I tell no one of my project.

  Next day, I mail my letter at the main post office to avoid any risk of its being lost.

  I wait and wait, boiling with feverish impatience. Then, one day, the reply comes. I rip open the envelope, the letter falls at my feet. I can’t even calmly pick it up. I throw myself on the ground and read it, the words dancing before my eyes, twisting, turning, fadin
g, evading me …

  I try to calm myself and restore my composure.

  Even though I had never dreamt of pursuing it, I begin to realize that the study of Russian has become vitally important to me.

  Finally, I manage to decipher the text: all that I shall need are a high school diploma and a recommendation from school or my present employer.

  I run to Vladimír’s. Breathing hard, without bothering to knock, I burst into his office.

  “He’s in a conference,” says his secretary. “Can I help you?”

  “Where is he?! I have to talk to him right away. It is about something very important.”

  She stares at me with sharpened curiosity. My face is flushed. I am shaking and soaked with sweat.

  Hesitantly, she reaches for the telephone, dials the number and hands me the receiver.

  The telephone rings and rings, the intervals between the piercing, burrowing signals stretching to eternity. If Vladimír does not answer immediately, I shall burst into a thousand pieces.

  A flat, indifferent voice meets my anxious waiting:

  “I hear you, Comrade. What do you want?”

  “I have to talk to Comrade Mesner, please. It is very urgent.”

  Wary of scandal, she wants me to explain what it is all about. She hears an edge to my voice. Am I one of Vladimír’s girlfriends maybe in trouble, a month gone?!

  “Look, Comrade, you don’t expect me to pull Comrade Mesner out of an important meeting, do you, especially if you won’t tell me what it is about?”

  I grit my teeth. I have to invent something plausible, or she will never call Vladimír to the phone.

  “Well, Comrade, if you do insist. It concerns my course with the Comrade Director of the Chemička. There’s a very serious problem. I’m certain that Vladimír will want to know about it.”

  She sighs, not quite sure what to do.

  “Well … in this case, I’ll call Comrade Mesner. But I shall mention that you insisted, as he will surely be annoyed.”

  The receiver pressed tightly against my ear, I wait again. Noises coming from a distance cling, clatter, and fade before they reach me. Suddenly, a sound detaches itself from the chaos. Steady, familiar, reassuring, it moves in my direction. I recognize the steps of Vladimír and nearly collapse when I hear his voice.

  “Vladimír, please, I must talk to you right away! It is extremely important!”

  “Well, in this case, I’ll do my best to be with you as quickly as possible. Wait for me at my office and take it easy. And do remember: in the whole world there is nothing that can’t be fixed.”

  My letter of recommendation carries the huge stamp of the departmental committee of the Czechoslovak-Soviet Friendship in the middle, flanked on both sides with the stamps of the various institutions where I teach Russian.

  Along with that, Vladimír composes a curriculum vitae for me, incorporating all the virtues of an accomplished human being of the socialist era, that would make any red angel blush for its perfection.

  To Vladimír’s signature, certifying that this marvel is genuine and exists in flesh and blood, are added the signatures of all the high-ranking, influential personalities of Ústí. Vladimír collected them himself and hands me the impressive document with a big smile:

  “And now, we shall see if they dare not accept you!” he says, tapping me vigorously on the shoulder.

  From that day on, my life becomes a public affair.

  If it was required, the Chief Justice of Ústí would be ready to intervene on my behalf for the President of the Republic: the Director of the Chemička would alert the Minister of Industry; the workers would smash the faces of those university botchers if they didn’t recognize my qualities; a workers’ delegation is to accompany me to the exam and see to the necessary.

  When I explain to them that I would feel embarrassed, that I prefer to pass the exam by my own skills and knowledge rather than by brute force, they feel disappointed but respect my point of view.

  On the day of the exam, I am accompanied to the station, given flowers, candies, and nourishing sandwiches to keep up my strength.

  The Institute of Russian Language and Literature is situated in a Belle Epoque building along the quays of the Vltava river, above the café Slavia, which since its beginning has been a meeting place for Czech intellectuals and artists.

  The large windows of the café reflect the sunlight, which, in turn, inundates the river that flows around a cozy green island—a screen between the sharp voices of the city and the soft calm of the Malá Strana, another district in Prague, reassuringly beautiful and made to mock the ravages of time. Prague exchanges a Mona Lisa smile with the eternity of the Malá Strana, put at its disposal by the face-liftings of architects skilful in first-class aesthetic surgery.

  I am dressed up in spotless white from head to toe, an impeccable picture. In one hand, I clasp a small rabbit fur purse, my other hand nestles in Father’s big palm.

  My father is strong and mighty. From him emanates the discreet scent of eau de cologne, which fills the plush cab.

  The taxi stops in front of the Slavia. The driver opens the door, Father steps out and offers his hand to me. We enter the café: a gentleman with a four-year-old of elegant distinction who is determined not to appear her age.

  It is my first step into the world, but I try hard not to show it.

  My eyes riveted on Father, I diligently imitate him. I bow from right to left, I throw a little smile here and there. Solemnly, I let myself be escorted to “our” table, where Father’s artist friends are already awaiting us.

  It is a big day for me. We are going to a private viewing of paintings done by one of Father’s friends. I am admitted into their world as an autonomous and sovereign being, having the right to my own opinion, which will be taken into consideration and respected—just as theirs are.

  Father asks me what I would like to drink. I pause …

  I see cups of black coffee in front of all the gentlemen; in fact, I should probably order the same, but coffee is the one thing that I dislike most, a horrible potion that I am forced to drink when I have an upset stomach. If I order it, I shall have to drink it, and it will quite ruin my day.

  Father notices my confusion, but does not know how to help, not wanting to knock me off my pedestal.

  “No coffee for me, today. I’ll have chocolate with whipped cream—a large cup, please,” I say with dignity to a very polite and amused waiter.

  I look at Father. He pinches his lips, takes out a handkerchief, and wipes his mouth. All the gentlemen-artists do the same. No one laughs.

  I have passed the test.

  I climb the bright, scarlet-carpeted staircase framed with large windows of ornamental glass, in which peacocks spread their ostentatious splendor among the mauve, lilac, and emerald irises.

  The light, streaming in through the rainbow-colored glass, spills over on the ceiling, walls, and railings in torrents of different hues. The luminous points dance, embrace, mix, and finally explode into a blending waterfall.

  The entrance exam takes place on the first floor. No one has to wait in the corridor: the door is wide open, the windows open up on a blue sky from which one can see the fantastic silhouette of Hradčany castle.

  I sit down at a small green table and examine the file, placed on my right. The exam is anonymous. My file bears number 6. I caress it with the tips of my fingers. Introducing myself, I hope we shall become friends.

  Nice little number, come and play with me.

  A warm, gentle voice fills the room with reassuring sounds: welcoming and encouraging us. It believes in our success, and I feel confident.

  After the Twentieth Congress, the Soviet Communist Party was in doubt about what to do with the university professors released from the Gulag Archipelago. The Party feared their rebel influence, their nonconformity, and their knowledge. Physical liquidation being no longer in vogue, the “iconoclasts” were “banished” to foreign countries, far from the Soviet home
land.

  The Institute of Russian Language and Literature was created in Prague to accommodate them and other undesirable elements, and I had the honor and the chance to become one of their disciples. Through them I grasped fully and totally the words of Maxim Gorky:

  “The human being—that sounds proudly.”

  I have finished writing.

  I look around me. In sharp contrast with the “normal” candidates at university examinations, I and my lot form an odd group: our age is diverse, our destiny is the same. Inhibited from pursuing our studies under Stalin’s prompt “justice,” we know our pursuit of Russian is a way out, realizing that even this imposed solution is a rare privilege and not something to be despised.

  I hand my paper to the professor, entrusting it to him. He seems upright and good. I have nothing to fear.

  I march down the staircase with a conqueror’s step and make my way towards Vltava. On the bridge, seagulls launch their white salute, honoring me with their daring loops. The river runs in sparkling cascades, folding like a shimmering carpet at my feet.

  I cross the bridge and then descend the massive white-stone steps, leading down to a green and peaceful island. I sit on the oak bench beside the river. The sun radiates warmth and licks me lovingly from head to toe. As a mother bear cares for her little one and shapes its body, it molds me.

  My oral that afternoon is a conversation between friends, united through common interests. Russian flows smoothly like the honey of acacia, the swarm of bees recognizing someone of their own kind.

  The examiner and the candidate are bound by complicity; their profound, sublime understanding is providential, not just a stroke of luck.

  I leave the professor with regret.

  It is good to be among one’s own.

  I have no time to stay and catch the first train for Ústí. Iris is alone and I am worried. I am certain that Rudolf will look after her: he cannot afford a public scandal, jeopardizing his reputation as a man, and he is always respectful of authorities.

  I have missed the express train and I have to take the local. Its slowness is disconcerting; the close confines of the passageway vibrate under my fidgety feet.