‘How much is that large egg in the window?’ asked Beba in English.
‘Unfortunately, it’s not for sale,’ the girl replied politely.
‘Why did you put it in the window, then?’
‘As an advertisement, to catch people’s attention.’
‘And what would it cost if it were for sale?’
‘We are not an ordinary souvenir shop. We are a specialist gallery,’ the girl stalled.
‘Specialising in what?’
‘Why, eggs…’
‘And these other eggs, are they for sale?’
‘Yes.’
‘How much is this “Peter the Great”?’
‘Three thousand five hundred.’
‘Three thousand what?’
‘Dollars. Most of our customers are Russians, you know.’
‘Rich Russians?’
‘Well…’ the girl smiled.
‘And how much is the “Tsar Alexander Caviar Bowl”?’ Beba read from the plaque in the window.
‘Six thousand dollars.’
‘And a real Fabergé egg?’
‘Don’t ask!’ said the girl with feeling.
‘Nevertheless, if you were selling that big egg, what would it cost?’
The girl looked at the two elderly women dumbfounded.
‘Are you Russian?’
‘No, but we’d really like to buy that Russian egg!’
‘In fact, it isn’t Russian,’ said the girl. ‘It was made by our local artist Karel…’
‘Karel Gott?’ Kukla blurted out, half to herself.
‘How do you know?’
‘I’m not sure. I just said it without thinking. Karel Gott, the golden nightingale… That was long ago.’
‘Zlaty slavik!’* said the pleasant girl. ‘But this is our own, local, Karel Gott. I think that he’s some relation of the famous singer.’
‘So? Give us a price.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s not for sale,’ said the girl apologetically.
Just when it seemed to Beba and Kukla and the girl that the situation was hopeless, and as the two women were preparing to leave, a sullen-looking man with wild hair burst into the gallery. Beba recognised him at once. It was that idiot, the Russian, from the casino. The man went straight from the door into an adjoining room without so much as glancing at the visitors.
For some reason, the girl lowered her voice:
‘That is the owner of the gallery. Hold on a minute, I’ll ask him,’ she whispered in a confidential tone and vanished into the adjoining room.
They heard voices coming from the room, and then the man peered out to take a look at who the potential buyers of the egg might be. Beba and Kukla stood modestly beside the counter, waiting. The man did not recognise Beba at first, but then, when he did, he gave a start. Beba was able to read the traces of an inner struggle on his face. He was evidently wondering whether to show that he recognised her, or pretend that he had never seen her before. The sullen-looking man vanished behind the wall with lightning speed just as he had appeared. The results of his inner struggle remained unclear. However, now his raised voice could be heard speaking Russian interspersed with the girl’s indistinct responses in Czech.
‘Sell it, no one buys that crap in any case! That idiot of yours, Karel, will make us a new one! Let the old bags pay twenty thousand! For that amount, for twenty thousand, I’d let the old witch rip me off!’
After a while the pleasant young girl appeared out of the adjoining room, now somewhat pinker in the face, and said:
‘You’re in luck.’
‘How much?’ asked Beba.
‘Twenty thousand,’ the girl spoke cautiously.
‘Does that include transport?’
‘Where to?’
‘To the Grand Hotel.’
‘Oh, but that’s right here! No problem. Are you paying cash or with a credit card?’ the girl asked, still disbelieving.
‘Cash!’ Beba burst out. ‘We’ll be back in a second. You’re not closing yet?’
‘No, you’ve got another full hour yet. I’ll wait for you.’
‘What’s your name?’ asked Kukla.
‘Marlena,’ said the girl.
At that moment the sullen-looking man with wild hair came out of the adjoining room and headed for the door. Despite his evident inner intention of looking neither left nor right, his glance escaped his control and came to rest on Beba. She managed to wave to him.
‘Spassibo, Kotik!’* she said sweetly.
What about us? Let’s keep going! In life there’s a lot we can delay, but the tale moves on and cannot stay!
6.
It was already late when two sulky young men from the ‘New Russians’ gallery brought the egg and placed it in Pupa’s suite.
Beba was sprawled wearily in an armchair, filling it entirely with her body like risen dough in a tin. Kukla was striding up and down, her arms folded on her chest. And then she stopped:
‘Well, aren’t we going to open it?’
Beba hauled herself out of the chair and waddled over to the egg. They unlocked it together. The room was filled with the pleasant aroma of fresh pine.
‘Who would have thought it was so spacious!’ said Beba.
‘We’ll have to make sure we buy enough bags of ice in the local supermarket,’ said Kukla drily, closing the egg.
Moths flew in through the open balcony doors into the brightly lit suite.
‘And the boot,’ added Kukla.
‘What boot?’
‘We ought to put Pupa’s boot in with her as well, don’t you think?’
‘Sure, put it in.’
‘I think Pupa would really like it if the boot was cleaned.’
‘We can have it dry-cleaned,’ said Beba, waddling over to the telephone to ring room service. ‘They’ll send someone right up,’ she said and made her way to the door. Beba had had enough for the day. She had no strength for any more words.
When she handed the hotel employee the bag containing a large fur boot, he opened his eyes wide and raised his eyebrows, but the question mark that formed for a moment on his forehead vanished at once, proving him a true hotel professional for whom nothing human is strange. Kukla withdrew to her part of the suite, leaving the door carefully ajar, as though Pupa was still in her room. She went out onto the balcony. The night was warm and soft as plush, and the sky was lit up by an enormous full moon. A barely visible mist rose from the trees, at least that is how it seemed to Kukla. The warmth that had accumulated during the day was evaporating from the leaves. Kukla breathed in the warm, fragrant air. Her nostrils caught the sweet smell of elder flowers. And then the door of the next-door balcony burst suddenly and noisily open and a metallic, tart woman’s voice rent the silence of the night.
‘Why the hell did you close the door? We’ll suffocate in here!’
‘I didn’t close it! Besides, we’ve got air-conditioning!’ replied a male voice calmly.
‘Everyone knows who keeps shutting the doors at home!’ grumbled the woman.
‘So open them!’ said the man’s voice.
‘I have done! Things soon get smelly round you, at home and on holiday!’
Kukla stood with her arms leaning on the balcony railing. The voices scratched roughly over the soft plush of the night. And then she screwed up her eyes, like the first time when she was still unaware of what she was doing, like many times before now – and directed all her thoughts in one direction. The door of the next-door balcony closed with a bang.
A little while later the metallic woman’s voice was heard again.
‘Why did you open the door?’
‘Which door?’ asked the man’s voice.
‘The room door!’
‘Why would I open the door into the corridor?
‘Because the balcony door banged! Didn’t you hear?’
‘Heavens, woman, you’re crazy…’
‘The balcony door banged shut, and there’s not a breath of wind outside!’
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‘So?’
‘So you must have opened the door onto the corridor on purpose to make a draught, so the balcony door would close by itself!’
‘Oh for goodness’ sake, give me a break! What’s got into you?’
‘What’s got into you!’ sawed the metallic voice.
Kukla stood on the balcony, gazing at the moon. A smile passed over her face. In the park opposite, the trees were lit up by moonlight and the light of lanterns at the base of their trunks. It seemed that the canopies had no weight and that they could at any moment lift off the trees and float away across the sky like luxurious green zeppelins. Large rooks rustled in the treetops. Kukla could not see them, but she knew they were there.
What about us? Unfortunately, we must keep going. While life may lead us on a merry dance, the tale hastens on without a backward glance.
7.
When she got back to her suite, Beba was overcome by indescribable fatigue. She collapsed, fully dressed, onto her bed, managed to catch a glimpse of the full moon in the sky through the balcony door, which was still open, and then sank into a deep sleep.
Beba dreamed that she was entering a sumptuous royal palace. She appeared to be the queen, although she seemed to be dressed in a nightgown and housecoat. She had bare feet, and had not had time to pull on her ‘minimiser’, which she was immediately aware of, because the weight of her breasts hurt her. That is why she was supporting them with her hands. She held her left breast in her left palm and her right breast in her right palm. She stepped into the hall like a Sumo-wrestler, which must have aroused respect in those present. Her gaze fell on a red carpet stretching away from her and two rows of figures, between which she was evidently supposed to walk. At the end, somewhere in the depths of the hall, stood a podium and a red and gold royal throne. But, amazingly, the rows were not composed of people, courtiers and ladies, but – eggs!
Having seen plenty of films with such ‘regal’ scenes, Beba decided to treat the eggs as though they were courtiers, to bestow her queenly attention on them and stop for a moment in front of each of them. And, fancy, as Beba stopped, each egg bowed as a mark of profound respect, pronounced its name – Cuckoo Egg, Renaissance Egg, Lily Egg, Tsarevich Egg – and gracefully opened its interior. Beba examined the inside of each egg in amazement, while the egg listed the precious materials of which it was made: gold, platinum, rubies, sapphires, emeralds, pearls, diamonds… Heavens, how many splendid eggs there were in each row! And all the eggs had bowed to her, Beba, with the greatest respect, and then charmingly opened up their insides! Some of the eggs stood on little golden legs, others had pedestals made of the finest material, yet others were rocking on little golden saucers, others again stood firmly wedged in silver or gold holders, while others sat on lavish miniature thrones, but when Beba stopped in front of them, they slipped off them and curtsied. Beba was beside herself with pleasure. It seemed to her that her sight had sharpened, because she noticed, amazingly, even the tiniest detail, as though she had strong magnifying lenses built into her eyes.
And then, perhaps on account of those lenses, she was overcome with fatigue. It was tiring to support her heavy breasts in her hands, and the distance between her and the throne did not seem to be getting any less. Nor were the eggs in front of her beautiful now. One of them opened its interior, in which there was a miniature loudspeaker, and said in a metallic voice: A little house with no windows or doors, when the owner wants to get out he breaks down the walls! Beba wanted to walk past the ugly egg, but when she tried to take a step, an invisible force prevented her. The sentence the egg had pronounced was, obviously, a riddle, and the invisible force prevented Beba moving until she had solved it. Beba thought for a long time, her breasts had grown so heavy that her elbows and hands were aching as well, and then she finally worked it out and said: ‘An Egg!’ And, fancy, the invisible force let her move on.
But at the next moment Beba was suddenly attacked by a fresh yellow yolk that splashed in her face. Beba didn’t have time to feel offended. She understood that she had to be quick and smart because the eggs had obviously become hostile.
‘I have egg on my face,’ she said, under the fierce attack of the yolk ‘kamikaze’.
‘On ne saurait faire une omelette sans casser des oeufs,’ said Beba quickly, but afraid that eggs didn’t speak French, repeated: ‘You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.’ And the eggs backed off.
Yes, the eggs were different now, sort of ‘verbal’ eggs. Beba found herself in front of a grey one, which bowed down in front of her, said its name, Grandmother’s Egg, and opened up its inside. Inside, where there should have been a gleaming white and a golden yolk, there was nothing, as though it had all been sucked out. Beba realised at once that the egg represented that saying about teaching your grandmother to suck eggs. Beba had never used that expression. Maybe because she did not like the idea of sucking eggs.
The entire ceremony had become wearisome and pointless, and Beba wondered what would happen if she was to smash all these arrogant high-protein bastards. She was the Queen, wasn’t she, and after all this was her dream, wasn’t it? ‘I am going to make scrambled eggs out of all of you!’ grumbled Beba in her thoughts. And, as though they had guessed what Beba was thinking, the eggs suddenly started to run away in all directions and hide. All except one. At the end of the red carpet, a golden egg was waiting for her. When she reached it, the egg made a charming curtsey, like all the previous eggs, and opened up. Beba felt a sharp stab and for a moment the pain took her breath away. In a miniature golden coffin a beautiful, naked youth was lying in the foetal position. She bent down, took the egg in her hands, looked at the little golden body without breathing, and then a painful sob broke from her chest. The egg slipped out of Beba’s hands and fell onto the floor and – hop, hop, hop – jumped into Pupa’s boot! It was only then that Beba noticed that Pupa’s fur boot was standing beside the throne.
The dream had been horrifying and Beba woke up. She shook herself, her cheeks, wet with tears, were trembling and her heart was beating violently. Still sobbing, Beba got out of bed, went to the fridge and took out a bottle of champagne. She sat for a long time on the edge of the bed, calming her heart, drinking the champagne in rapid, small sips like water and – staring at the round moon. Oh, what a nightmare! Beba tried to separate the tangled threads of the dream, but they just kept getting more tangled. Like a glittering medallion, the golden body of her son in the foetal position flickered in front of her eyes. The moon had grown pale and become almost transparent by the time Beba, dazed with champagne and exhausted by successive sobs, finally fell asleep.
* ‘The golden nightingale!’
*‘Thank you, pussycat!’
Day Five
1.
Beba and Kukla were pleasantly surprised at breakfast the following morning, when they caught sight of the elegant young man whom Beba had almost knocked over the previous day in the hotel doorway. A still greater surprise ensued when the young man got up from his table, came over to theirs and asked them politely whether he could join them. Kukla and Beba’s jaws dropped in amazement when it turned out that the young man spoke Croatian, with an English accent, admittedly, but still quite fluently. It turned out that the young man was a lawyer by profession, that he lived in London and that his daughter was at that moment in the pool with the hotel swimming instructor. The young man was evidently not someone inclined to beat about the bush. Kukla and Beba did beat about the bush, however, because if they had not first asked where he lived, what he did for a living and where his daughter was, they would probably have discovered immediately what soon followed. And the discovery that landed in front of them, like a thunderbolt out of the clear blue sky – on the table with its snow-white linen tablecloth and embroidered linen napkins, with its coffee cups and plates of the finest porcelain, with its silver cutlery, with slivers of pink salmon covered in cream and laid on crisp pancakes, with a little basket full of fresh rolls, with butter in
a porcelain dish ringed with ice, with a porcelain bowl of raspberries, blackberries and blueberries that looked as though they had just been picked – was that the young man was none other than Pupa’s grandson!
‘Grandson!?’ exclaimed Kukla and Beba in the same instant.
‘That’s right,’ said the young man.
‘Can you prove it?’ asked Kukla cautiously.
‘Oh, yes, I can show you all the necessary documents. We’ll get to that in a moment in any case,’ said the young man pleasantly.
‘So, you’re claiming to be Pupa’s grandson!’ said Beba, presumably to gain some time, although during that time she did not manage to think of anything apart from what she had already said.
‘Yes,’ said the young man succinctly.
‘Thank goodness you’ve appeared. Your grandmother passed away yesterday,’ said Kukla, who evidently coped with surprises better than Beba.
‘That’s what I thought,’ said the young man, not remotely taken aback.
The wind blows, then calms down, but Pupa’s trouble lasted her whole life. While life is lived slowly, the tale is told quickly, so we shall now briefly relate what Pupa’s grandson told Kukla and Beba.
Pupa Milanović, née Singer, enrolled at the Zagreb Medical Faculty in 1938. In her first year she fell in love with Aaron Pal, a fellow student. Pupa very soon found that she was pregnant, the young couple married and in 1939 Pupa gave birth to a little girl, Asja. In 1940 Aaron’s parents could see that things were looking bad everywhere in Europe, so they moved, with the help of family connections, to London, taking advantage of a brief green light offered by the British authorities, and joining Jews from Poland and Germany. Pupa and Aaron decided to stay in Zagreb. Aaron’s parents suggested that they take Asja with them, which seemed a sensible solution to Pupa and Aaron at the time.
Baba Yaga Laid an Egg (Myths S.) Page 17