Four Sonyas

by Paral, VladimIr

  The left or “pleasure” half was taken up mostly by his sixteen-times-folded school map, and crammed in its folds and in the leather were postcards from pals with more in the way of signatures than actual messages, and long-drawn-out letters from girls, a photo of a half-naked black girl from Youth World, and photos of girls with the marks of small-town photographers on the back and brief texts such as Never forget, Hanka, or With love from Ph.Dr. Zdislava Tanningerova-Boricka, a fragment of an envelope with a red Sierra Leone stamp, a colorful coaster from the Munich brewery Olympiator with a tiger licking up beer foam inside a circular caption, Was der Tiger unter den Teiren ist der Olympiator unter den Bieren, and a calendar for an entire year on one side of a waxed card. With a fingernail Ruda scratched out last Sunday’s date till it was illegible (for the part of the year that had already passed, there were only dug-up strips), he put the calendar back into the “pleasure” side, the wallet into his trousers and, chewing on a stalk of grass, he turned over once more onto his back, now waiting only for the honking of the siren.

  At the tiny swimming pool (a couple of minutes from the plant) he was again lying on his stomach in order to view the Hrusov summer visitors, but his boredom only increased, none of the men could possibly be compared to him and none of the women aroused any stir of feeling in him, so then he rolled around in a cool fishpond, chewed on reeds, dived, reemerged, and snorted when he ran into the floating green water plants, again he was lying in the grass in the sun and then again in a frantic crawl he rushed across the pond like a typhoon, a whirlwind of spraying water, foam, swirling mud, and bits of grass, twigs and tattered leaves.

  Lazily Ruda trudged through the empty, glowing streets leading to the Hotel Hubertus, on the gates of which the poster from yesterday’s Floricultural Evening was still lit, in the empty bar he at once ordered two beers from Sonya, one for thirst and the other for pleasure, the other one he pushed aside with just the dregs left and ambled up to his room No. 5 and, just as he was, with his boots still on, he collapsed onto his freshly-made bed, he was extremely bored (suddenly he longed for the bustle of the crowded dorms of the great industrial complexes of Northern Moravia and Eastern Slovakia, where a fellow never feels sad), suddenly he got up and went to sit by the window with his guitar, for an hour perhaps he strummed morosely (used as he was to hard sixteen-hour shifts and then the rest of the night playing cards, he felt physically almost a captive of this sleepy hotel room, his muscles twitching restlessly like a stallion kept too long in a stable), already this feeling had faded, he roared in anger, slammed his guitar down on the table, slammed himself down on the bed, and when he felt his brass-bound wallet against his hip, he quickly sat up and opened it on his knees.

  From the “pleasure” side he drew out his old school map and the calendar, with his finger he traced a road along the mountain chains shown in brown (he was fond of mountains), looking especially for mountains which had a lake (he suddenly felt a longing for a lake, any sort of lake), until he discovered a promising blue oval located on one side of a dotted brown mountain (2,500 to 3,000 feet above sea level), and on the other side a ring with a dot inside it (a town of 5,000 to 10,000 inhabitants), there it would be no problem finding specialized work for Ruda Mach and already he was reaching with his finger for the calendar (suddenly resolved to get the hell out tomorrow morning).

  Just then, outside the door, a woman’s scream, the smashing and clanging of metal, Ruda sprang out into the corridor — in her green dress from the Floricultural Evening Sonya was kneeling on the floor and collecting broken dishes on a tray.

  “This will get me another licking,” she sighed.

  “Naturally, I will pay for everything,” Engineer Ziki Holy said in a grating voice, he was standing in the open door of Room No. 2 across the hall, “Come in, please, inside, just for a second, and I’ll give you some cash.”

  “I’d rather get a slapping from my Auntie!” said Sonya.

  “Come back to my room and you’ll get the money right away. We really can’t stand here in the corridor—”

  “That’s a pile of horseshit and all for some stupid crockery,” said Ruda (he had no love for engineers), “I’ll give you a century note, Sonya, without the horseshit and right away. Come on in—”

  With her tray full of broken crockery Sonya crossed the hall to Room No. 5 and on the threshold Ruda clapped a hundred-note on the tray and bared his teeth.

  “What did that old fogey want?”

  “He claims he’s sick, but actually he’s shamelessly healthy.”

  “But you’d shake up a dead man three days buried. Just think how you sent those old fogies off their rockers yesterday.”

  Sonya rubbed her bare ankles against one another and smiled prettily at Ruda (and imperceptibly she closed the door behind her).

  “…it’s because you’re such a pretty girl.”

  “Prettier than Jarunka?”

  “Don’t give her a second thought. She’s not important.”

  “She told me lots of things about you.”

  “I’ll bet a lot of it was made up.”

  “I don’t think so. Are you still fond of her?”

  “I like her and I don’t like her,” said Ruda, sticking to the truth.

  “And now you’re going off to find another one—”

  “Maybe so.” (In the circle with the dot something would be sure to show up.)

  “So you don’t like it here anymore?”

  “What would there be here for me to like?”

  Sonya rubbed her bare ankles against one another and smiled prettily at Ruda. Ruda slowly pushed her hands, which were holding the tray, away from her body (as if unveiling her) and slowly he looked her over from her flaming red hair all the way to her tiny ankles and naked, delicate little toes, Sonya opened her mouth just a bit and it was as if she had stopped breathing (he made a mental note of this), nakedly she endured Ruda’s eloquent gaze, which bored straight into her eyes, then her lips, her shoulders — until she drew the tray back to her breast again (as if resuming the veil), but she remained in Ruda’s room (he made a mental note of this) and her green eyes illuminated her (he had never had so beautiful a girl).

  Ruda slowly drew Sonya to himself, softly kissed her hair, and then pushed her from his room. Again he reached with his finger for the calendar and again on his school map he found the small blue oval of the lake, he sighed (but the lake will still be there a thousand years from now) and crammed it all back into his wallet, shoved the wallet back into his trousers, and with his guitar resumed his place at the window (his mind suddenly made up).

  Hotelier Volrab was most pleased when he woke up alone, from the kitchen the sweet sounds of pots cooking and his wife singing, there’s no denying the fact that I haven’t lived in vain in this world and I’ve had my share of experiences too, Volrab twisted pleasurably underneath the warm featherbed and snickered softly (he was recalling the delightful war years, with our old Hotel Globus across from the Usti railway station, the brisk trade in the bar and in the guest rooms whenever a train arrived from the front or a boat anchored in the harbor, there were times when, early in the morning, even Herr Wohlrab himself had to go upstairs to the guest rooms and the fresh, sweet, drowsy flesh), he reflected with pleasure on yesterday’s success and full of zest for life he woke merrily to Monday morning, on the kitchen table he was greeted by a liqueur glass of rum for his digestion, a big mug of white coffee with the skin of the milk on it, and a mighty wedge of sponge cake spread with strawberry jam and covered with sweet cream, with his mouth still full he set the day’s menu with Volrabka and gave Sonya a whole list of tasks, the girl had to flit hurriedly through the kitchen, the bar, and the pantry, “And don’t forget to bring in some parsley—,” when you don’t keep close supervision, the workforce may get fidgety, “—and scrub the bar and change the light bulb in the hallway!”

  “I’m not real sure, you devil, whether I can wangle Spanish cutlet out of this,” Volrabka announced, s
ticking her finger into a plate full of green strips of meat.

  “How many days has it been?”

  “Sunday, Saturday, Friday, Thursday, Wednesday, Tuesday—” Volrabka counted on her fingers.

  Beef could last all of twelve days at the Volrabs’ (since thirteen is an unlucky number). On the first day beef was served up as “steak,” and if it didn’t sell it was offered a second day as “steak.” If it still hadn’t sold, it was brought out on the third and fourth days as “Moravian pot roast.” When even that failed to sell, it would be served on the fifth and sixth days as “Spanish cutlets,” in case of further failure, on the seventh and eighth days it would be made into “Mexican goulash,” then on the ninth, tenth, and eleventh days it would be served with something else as “homemade stuffing,” and finally, on the twelfth day, the unsuccessful meat would be put through a grinder and end up in soup as “liver dumplings,” and this would always sell.

  “—it’s the sixth day,” Volrabka counted, “but the meat’s a tiny bit out of sorts.”

  “Day 6’s always been Spanish cutlets,” Volrab said matter-of-factly as he left the kitchen, “so pepper and scent it well and the ladies and gentlemen will be kind enough to gobble it all up.”

  He glanced into the bar, where Sonya was on her knees scrubbing the floor, he assigned her the added task of polishing the spigots, he turned on the tap and served himself a beer, which he drank with gusto, in the hallway he ascertained that Sonya had already changed the light bulb, and he went out into the yard in a very good mood. For a time he stuck sunflower leaves through the wire of the rabbits’ cage and, moved, he began to push them tenderly into their pink snouts, he glanced in at the chicken house, and in the sty he tickled Emil the pig behind the ears for a while, both of them snickering, he gave Emil a sugar cube and then just stood for a while in the sunlight.

  A low blue-black car drove into the yard and came swinging to a stop right beside him, it was Engineer Zikmund Holy coming back from his morning swim.

  Ziki rolled down his window and beckoned with his finger for Volrab to come over.

  “For some reason you walked out on us early last night,” Volrab trumpeted while making a polite bow. “Perhaps our Floricultural Soirée wasn’t quite to your taste?”

  “It certainly wasn’t,” Ziki said icily. “Listen, I will be a little bit ill this afternoon,” by extending his hand in a commanding way he assured himself of Volrab’s complicity, “let’s say at exactly five o’clock. The bar’s just about empty then, so you can send Sonya up to my room with tea. And if she doesn’t quite get back in five minutes’ time, you can do without her for a bit. Let’s say half an hour.”

  “Of course, sir, I’ve no objections, but begging your pardon, the girl is supposed to bring up tea twice in the space of five minutes—”

  “All right, let’s say I’m ordering Sonya for half an hour.”

  “I’ve no objections, sir, of course, I’m just wondering what a girl would have to do in all that time. Pray, don’t be angry with me, you know I’m just a stupid country yokel—”

  “I want Sonya to read to me,” Ziki grinned and started the engine again. “Put it on my bill,” and with his brights on he drove into the garage.

  Volrab hurried down the corridor, rubbing his hands together, in the kitchen he affably permitted Sonya to prolong saying goodbye to her friend Jarunka Slana — nevertheless, she may not stop working for a moment — and he rushed Volrabka to their bedroom, behind the closed door they had a long discussion, most of which consisted of figures: “Fifty is too little—” “You can’t insist on all his savings up front. It’s only the first time, after all—” “At the Globus it was never less than twenty marks, and that was two hundred crowns—” “But those were Protectorate marks and the girls had some skills, after all—” “Well, sixty at least—” “How about eighty crowns then—”

  In the afternoon, at half-past four (only Ruda Mach was hanging around the otherwise empty bar; he was already supplied with his two beers, he would order a third towards evening), the dumbfounded Sonya was commanded to put on yesterday evening’s green silk dress, Volrabka took pains combing her hair, and Volrab personally took charge of tightening her apron from behind.

  “You’re so good to me, Auntie and Uncle,” Sonya was astounded and touched by their unprecedented concern, “and all this for serving tea to Mr. Holy…”

  “Be nice to him, Sonya,” Volrab said earnestly. “Very, very nice. You understand … he’s important to us. He’s our very best customer!”

  “If you’re very nice to him,” Volrabka said in a sudden burst of inspiration, “you can wear that dress for every day.”

  “Yes, yes…” Sonya gasped and clasped her hands.

  “And for our next evening you can sew a new one,” Volrabka went on, “a pink one…”

  “Better a white one,” Volrab said.

  “A young girl looks best in pink…” Volrabka was in her youth again.

  “But white means she’s innocent, and that always makes the biggest splash,” said Volrab.

  “Come here, Sonya,” said Volrabka, and she pulled her toward herself. “I hope you still are innocent,” and when Sonya bent her head in confusion, Volrabka raised it with her finger and insisted: “Well? I asked you a question!”

  “Yes, Auntie,” Sonya whispered, blushing.

  “You haven’t done anything with any man?” Volrab needed the information.

  “No, Uncle,” Sonya whispered, blushing.

  “Even with Mr. Jagr?” Volrabka was truly concerned.

  “No, Auntie,” Sonya whispered, blushing.

  “And never with anyone else?”

  “Not even once?”

  “No, Uncle. No, Auntie,” Sonya whispered, blushing.

  “Well then! You certainly couldn’t do that sort of thing for us, for everything we give you: a place to live, clothing, shoes, food, drink, heat, good manners, security…” Volrab counted it all off on his fingers.

  “Just remember how you came to us. A few rags of clothing and a few books in your suitcase and a pair of shoes, they were worn out anyway and one stocking had a big hole in the heel…” Volrabka reminisced.

  “In a nutshell, with a bare ass,” Volrab summarized.

  “And now, here with us, you’ve got everything,” Volrabka moralized.

  “Yes, Uncle. Yes, Auntie,” Sonya whispered, turning pale.

  “Well then. You see that we give you good advice, and you have to be careful with the men folk,” said Volrabka.

  “But not with the men we recommend, ‘cause we give you good advice,” said Volrab.

  “Take Mr. Holy, for instance. He’s a most respectable gentleman,” said Volrabka.

  “He has a car, a villa in Usti big as a castle, and so much money he could take a rake to it,” said Volrab.

  “How many girls would be happy if such a respectable gentleman came to see them in their room…” Volrabka was reminiscing again, but she caught herself right away: “if they could serve tea in his room.”

  “Mr. Holy is a fine gentleman and we would have nothing against your being nice to him in the best way you know how,” said Volrab.

  “He’ll tell you what to do and how,” said Volrabka.

  “So be as nice as you can to him,” Volrab summarized.

  It was five o’clock now, so the tea tray was loaded quickly for room No. 2. “But this tea is old and Mr. Holy always insists on having fresh tea—” Sonya grew frightened.

  “But he said five on the dot and five it is, he’ll have to drink it somehow,” said Volrab.

  “And two sugar cubes will do for him,” said Volrabka, and in a flash she removed two cubes from the four on the tray.

  “So go now, Sonya,” said Volrab, “and be very nice to the gentleman, and if there’s any sugar left over, bring it back, my Emil’s so fond of sugar.”

  While Sonya scurried away with the tray, Volrab went back to preparing a chicken and Volrabka to preserving str
awberries, but their heart was not in their work, both looked up quickly when Sonya finally returned, and they were horrified at the broken crockery on the tray. But when the girl smiled…

  “I knocked straightaway at old Holy’s door—” Sonya began her account, but Volrabka quickly put her hand over Sonya’s mouth and tactfully silenced her.

  “We aren’t interrogating you about anything, Sonya.”

  “You’re mature and an adult and a clever girl, and you yourself know best that you want to be successful,” Volrab said quietly.

  “I just wanted to explain about the hundred-crown note—” Sonya tried to explain, but Volrabka’s hand prevented any further explanation.

  “And you can start work on that white dress right away,” said Volrabka, “and I’ll peel the potatoes for you today.”

  “And here’s something for you, for your success, buy yourself some candy,” said Volrab, from his wallet he took out a five-crown note, put it down on Sonya’s tray, picked up the hundred crowns from Ruda Mach, and crammed it into his wallet and the wallet into his pocket. Next he took the sugar cubes for Emil the pig.

  Touched, Sonya thanked her extremely kind Uncle and Auntie for taking care of her and for the very first money they had ever given her, and then she started to collect the broken crockery. Her red hair sparkled on her tender shoulders, and over them sparkled the four eyes of the Volrabs.

  So tall in her sheer (the effect of hundreds of washings) nightgown which stretched down to her toes (a castoff from Volrabka; 3-5 Sonyas could fit in it), she was making up her extra-high bed in the kitchen of the Hotel Hubertus (the bed was at the height of Sonya’s breasts, because Volrab had inserted three cast-off mattresses which it pained him to throw out), my bed is that of a fairy-tale princess, only instead of a pea underneath the mattresses there were eighty concealed, uninventoried cans of Spanish sardines, which Uncle Volrab liked so much, under the top mattress she placed a novel she was reading (the Volrabs forbade Sonya to read at night because it spoiled her eyes, her skin, and her figure) by Armand Lanoux, When the Ebbtide Comes, borrowed from the Hrusov Public Library (every Thursday Sonya went there to borrow one), over the made-up bed she threw a retired billiard cloth covered with cigarette burns and three retired plastic tablecloths (to protect the mattresses against kitchen fumes), on top of them a lace bedspread—Auntie always enthuses about beauty—on the bedspread an earthenware bowl. She stepped back from her work and with her head leaning toward her shoulder she evaluated it critically: it looked horrible, but how much better it was than sleeping next door between the Volrabs (after the hit she made with Ruda Mach’s hundred-note, Sonya was once again allowed to sleep by herself in the kitchen), but even this bed doesn’t belong to me nor does the nightgown, I don’t have anything I can call my own … all I have is the faith that one day my prince will come and take me away from here.