Four Sonyas

by Paral, VladimIr

  He entered the city courthouse, in the third-floor corridor in front of the offices of the government notary he sat down on a leather sofa alongside Bertik Lohnmuller, from whom he took a matchbox, inside of which a twenty-dollar gold coin shone against a background of blue velvet, Ziki balanced it in his hand, bit into it, passed a fragment of touchstone around it, nodded and dropped the coin into his pocket, returned the box to Bertik and paid him thirty-six hundred crowns (ridiculously cheap), asked about some sapphires (not in yet), listened to news about a gold Spanish four-doubloon piece and placed an order for it, then for any number whatsoever of gold Roman solidi, fixed their next meeting for the following Wednesday, and went out into the heat of the square.

  He had the chauffeur open the door and said, “Home,” and half reclining on the rear cushions he looked out, bored, at the hot streets of the city of Usti. On Vilova Street the chauffeur downshifted to third and then into second as he drove through the open gates of No. 26 and through the garden up to the garage of Villa Cynthia, where Wolf Zahn was polishing the windshield of the blue-black Triumph with a chamois cloth.

  Ziki dismissed the chauffeur and looked quizzically at his Wolf.

  “Mme. Aja was here,” Wolf announced.

  “You don’t say.”

  “She wanted to go up to her room.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “She wouldn’t be talked out of it.”

  “That’s typical of her.”

  “I finally had to lay a hand on the dear lady.”

  “What did you use?”

  “A blackjack.”

  “Won’t it leave marks?”

  “I threw a tarp over the lady.”

  “Be as careful as possible until the divorce decree is announced! How about our room?”

  “The cage is ready for the canary.”

  With Wolf behind him Ziki went up to the second floor, in the pale blue bathroom he undressed with Wolf’s help and permitted himself ten minutes of ice-cold shower, then Wolf unscrewed the shower head and lashed his master into condition with the forceful stream, and finally a hot shower (it prolongs the effect of the cold).

  Naked, Ziki passed through the corridor to the dressing room, where he put on cream-colored shorts, a chocolate- colored shirt (both made of cooling natural silk), beige trousers of light, loosely-woven wool and, in front of a mirror, he carefully tied his sulfur-yellow tie.

  He entered the room with the bay window, walked noiselessly across the purple rug with its white lions and stylized grapes, with the skillful, silent, economical movements of a single hand he unlocked and let down the massive door of the ebony sideboard: on the counter thus formed he placed a simply etched glass taken from the upper section of the mirrored shelves and drew out and uncorked (always with a single hand) a bottle of Tarragona spiced wine, in one motion he poured his noontime dose into the glass (a finger’s breadth below the top of the glass) and with alpaca-lined tongs (always with a single hand) he lowered a circlet of lemon onto the surface of the wine (relishing as he did so the view of the yellow circlet and the silvery rim submerging into the warm brown), he took a sip and glass in hand went to take a look at the canary cage (a recollection of Aja’s tan face with the moist temples and the way she shrieked).

  “Good morning, sir,” Berta Zahnova greeted him in the “little room” (white furniture, a thick yellow rug sewn from sheepskins, no heavy or sharp object anywhere, the door and window without handles, and outside the window a concave grill).

  “It’s all in working order,” Wolf said from over by the window.

  “But what if she were to break the glass,” Ziki said, and he took a sip of his Tarragona.

  “She could only break the inside pane. Outside, there is a wire which lowers a metal shutter immediately and then— Do you care to try it?”

  “Later,” said Ziki. “Is Berta ready for the trip?”

  “Yes, sir. Would you care to see it before lunch?”

  Ziki nodded, Berta trotted off downstairs, and when Ziki descended after her to the hall, he found her waiting for him by her open, oblong suitcase. With her hands she moved aside a few pieces of underwear and took out a silvery pair of double bracelets (a toy from the London Woolworth’s: children’s handcuffs which Wolf had provided with a real lock).

  “Hands—” said Ziki, and when Berta held them up for him, he set his glass of Tarragona down on the ivory table and snapped the cuffs around her wrists.

  “My wrists are a little bit too thick,” Berta said apologetically when Ziki had trouble taking the handcuffs off.

  “That’s OK. Gag—” said Ziki with his glass again between his fingers, and from underneath her garter Berta drew out a chamois pouch soaked in kerosene.

  “Chloroform—”

  “Here, sir,” Berta pointed to a bottle labeled GURKENMILCH. “And I’m also taking—”

  “That will do. You may serve lunch.”

  Sitting alone in the ground-floor dining room paneled in Finnish larch, Ziki stirred an egg into his bouillon and before taking his first spoonful he drank up the rest of his noontime Tarragona.

  After lunch (steamed boneless chicken with cashew nuts, chilled pineapple, a wedge of cheddar cheese) and an hour-long nap (absolutely dreamless, except shortly before waking a tantalizing image of Sonya Cechova kneeling in a long children’s nightgown, a view from behind, the whole thing lasting no more than a couple of seconds), an ice-cold then a hot shower, toweling off, in the hall Berta Zahnova was already waiting with her oblong suitcase, when she caught sight of Ziki she got up at once, waited until he passed by her, and at a distance of three paces followed him to the garage, where Ziki got into the already started up blue-black Triumph, Berta got in beside him and placed her suitcase on the back seat.

  “You must have forgotten this in the pocket of the trousers you wore this morning,” said Wolf Zahn, and in his fingers he held the gold twenty-dollar piece…

  “Stick it in my pocket,” said Ziki, pulling out with one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the mahogany gearshift. Wolf ran alongside the car, stuck the coin in Ziki’s pocket, and banged the car door shut.

  On the street Ziki shifted into second and then right away into third, he drove through the ritzy quarter of Klise and the Vseborice prefab development, heading toward the concrete highway to the north, he shifted into fourth, turned on the car radio, and looking straight ahead he recapitulated:

  “The main thing is to keep your eyes open. The hardest will be to watch out for Jagr.”

  “Engineer Jakub Jagr, young, blond, room No. 4,” Berta said nimbly.

  “…he’s a mooncalf, but an unpredictable one. One night he climbed into her window, and then he spied outside my door. But, of course, the most dangerous one is Mach.”

  “The bastard in No. 5.”

  “…and don’t let the Volrabs out of your sight.”

  “Count on me, sir.”

  Below Decin Castle, Ziki crossed a bridge over the Elbe, shot through Decin, and turned sharply up a hill, at a railway crossing the red lights had begun to blink, it would still have been easy to make it across the tracks, but Ziki stopped and waited until the barriers had dropped into their cradles. The train didn’t come for a long time.

  “We’ve got beautiful weather,” Berta took the liberty of observing.

  Ziki didn’t answer, he put his hand in his pocket and played with his new coin until the barriers went up again.

  Last she must clean the Bridal Suite,

  And the cleaning work is all complete.

  Then Sonya’s got to wash the staircase too;

  Don’t spare the soap and keep your hands like new.

  But remember, and the kitchen too don’t shirk—

  Hard-working girls aren’t afraid of work.

  Thus, Volrab’s poetry laid out the plan of the hours of that particular Tuesday, and tirelessly, without a pause, Sonya scraped potatoes, polished shoes, beat eggwhites, scratched Emil the pig, watered the
gladiolus, irises, and (on Sunday night thinned out) carnations, sliced liver for the soup, cut dumplings with a thread, cleaned cucumbers and Uncle Volrab’s pipe (when I’m married that skill will come in handy), sugared tarts, poured the soup and carried it out to the customers (maybe someday I’ll be the chef at the Paris Ritz) and smiled prettily at every one of them, took the leftovers out to Emil, washed the dishes, polished the billiard cues and, for the first time that day, before spending her afternoon in the bar, she had a minute to catch her breath, and already Jakub Jagr was rushing in.

  “Sonya, I love you!” he said in the doorway (a quite good-looking boy, that Jakub, with his sincere blue eyes) and: “You must leave here right away. Tomorrow morning!” (I’d be most happy to, except that you may not be the real prince I’m waiting for) and: “I’ve found a good job for you at Cottex!” (but there’s work everywhere and I can earn my keep) and even: “On Saturday I’ll take you and show you our home!” (any girl would be happy to hear that, but Uncle and Auntie would never let me go).

  In the corridor outside the bar, poor Jakub had a nasty run-in with Uncle (on account of me. Wonderful!), they screamed at one another so that I didn’t have to put my ear to the door to make out every word.

  “Just so you know, Sonya,” Uncle snorted with rage, downing beer after beer, “Engineer Jagr says you’re living here with us as a parasitic element — but if I ever nail him again in the yard at night, I’ll give him some bodily injury he’ll never forget! Hooligan! Stupid clown!”

  Jakub has good intentions toward me, I’m sure, but he’s brought me more trouble than help, since his visit on Sunday night Uncle locks my window every night — do they even do that in prison?

  “Sonya, you really didn’t do anything with Mr. Jagr, nothing at all? You know you can tell me absolutely everything…”

  “I’ve already told you I didn’t, Uncle! Not even with Ziki…”

  “I didn’t ask you about him. But how about Mr. Mach — don’t you fawn on him more than is necessary for a respectable girl in a respectable bar?”

  “You must have dreamed that.”

  “If only I had! Why in heaven’s name didn’t you give him the beer I drew for him?”

  “Because Mr. Mach knows dregs when he sees them, whereas Mr. Hudlicky will drink absolutely anything, as you very well know.”

  “If only I did! And the way you brought him fresh salt straight from the bag. Just get it into your head that I’m going to keep my eye on you!”

  “With Ziki too?”

  “Good God, call him Mr. Holy!”

  “But yesterday in the room he asked me to call him Ziki.”

  “He meant when you’re alone in the room with him — otherwise don’t get ideas in your head. You know he’s our best customer. And no vagabond laborer like Mach. You can get somewhere with Mr. Holy, if only you’d be nice to him. But if you’re nice to that fix-it man, he’ll fix you up with twins before you can close your eyes.”

  “Yes, Uncle.”

  So now when I’m working, Uncle doesn’t stir from the bar and doesn’t take his eyes off me — he even leans over the counter to have a better look whenever I wait on Mr. Mach — and whenever he has to go to the bathroom (which is quite often) he knocks with his keys on the kitchen door, and then Auntie watches me until he returns.

  Ever since the Floricultural Evening more people have been coming (and I know why!). Petrik Metelka (the young colorist from Cottex with the red ears) orders a bottle of champagne just for himself (he doesn’t know how to drink it, he only orders it because he’s afraid of Uncle) and he stares at me without letting up. Postmaster Hudlicky stares at me from the next table (he keeps sticking out his tiny chest, but it isn’t much to look at) and Uncle serves him nothing but dregs. The veterinarian, Srol, strokes me on the backside every time I bring him Egyptian white wine (made especially for him by Auntie out of cider and mentholated spirits), he adds bicarbonate of soda and when he burps he strokes me on the backside again. But then I’ve got Mr. Ruda Mach…

  How all their eyes shine when they stare at me, they’d kiss again without a second thought. They all pretend to be tigers, but all of them (except for Mr. Ruda) are rabbits, even the great Mr. Ziki snapped shut like a jackknife when yesterday in his room I scalded his shameless paw with boiling water from the teapot, I’d never have done that to Mr. Ruda — even if he were to reach for you WITH HIS PAW? — Mr. Ruda hasn’t got paws, he has beautiful, tanned, powerful hands, like a real live man. And Jakub Jagr watches it all from his table and keeps writing it down in his notebook — all I’d have to do is stamp my feet and he’d run off again. Rabbits is all they are.

  I’m glad Mr. Ruda Mach is here, just in case there’s some sort of row (if only there were a row…), it’s good to have a real live man around. And so I always serve Mr. Mach the very best of everything (he so needs someone to take care of him), yesterday I talked him out of ordering the “homemade stuffing” made with eleven-day-old meat and instead I served him warm smoked pork, from which I cut the best slice (if Auntie had seen me!), and how he enjoyed it! And today, instead of the Mexican goulash (which has been growing moldy in the casserole for two days now) Mr. Ruda will get the fresh sausages that Uncle set aside (there’ll be trouble when he doesn’t find them!), and beer that’s clear, just as it ought to be. There’s no doubt that Mr. Ruda looks at me too, but it’s nice the way he looks, just like looking at a girl he likes (even I know that), and it’s certainly permitted and it’s certainly nice, isn’t it?

  Sonya smiled prettily at Ruda Mach while she was serving Srol’s fourth “Egyptian white,” and all of a sudden Dr. Srol stroked me on my backside a bit too hard (behind the bar Uncle was arranging the cigarettes in the display case so he didn’t see a thing), then Dr. Srol jumped up on his chair (Uncle was still arranging the cigarettes) and squealed “Ow!” and stroked his own backside for a change.

  Mr. Mach had given him a well-planted kick from behind, through the opening in his chair. Uncle (suddenly the cigarettes were sufficiently arranged) boomed from behind the bar: “What does Mr. Mach want?!”

  “Nothing for me,” Mr. Ruda laughed. “But this old gentleman seems to want something you haven’t got on the menu!”

  Mr. Ruda Mach is the first person here who’s stood up for me. And when after some time Uncle went off to the bathroom (Mr. Srol was still stroking his own backside, drinking his poison, and following it up with bicarbonate as if it were bread)—Auntie watched me in his place—Mr. Mach suddenly ordered a bottle of No. 12 (because he knew that to get it I’d have to go to the cellar), and when I was on my way back with it Mr. Ruda was waiting for me in the corridor (I knew he’d be there) and marvelously he stroked my hair.

  “Don’t be afraid, Sonya,” he said softly. “And if you need anything, all you have to do is ask.”

  “You’re very kind, Mr. Mach.”

  “Or just wink.”

  “Yes, Mr. Mach.”

  And again he looked at me in such a special way, just as he had when he gave me the hundred-note for the broken crockery, actually it wasn’t exactly a proper look, but perhaps someone who helps you has a right to look at you that way…

  I could have endured his gaze till midnight, but just then Uncle came out of the WC and let me have it: what was I doing hanging around out here?

  “I sent her down for a bottle of No. 12!” Mr. Ruda said loudly.

  “All of a sudden,” Uncle grinned. “You always used to say it was doctored.”

  “And it is! But not as much as your beer! The tubes that bring the beer up from the basement must be mixed up with the plumbing!”

  “Well, well, well, maybe things aren’t so bad after all,” Uncle muttered (he doctors everything he lays his hands on), he chased me into the kitchen and started into me right away, once again he charged me for everything since the year 1905 and didn’t even forget the hole in one of my stockings (though the stocking was from the suitcase he had taken away from me on the very first day).<
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  “I’ll never ever do it again,” I lied, and then I sniveled a bit so he would give me some peace (anyway, he couldn’t deprive me of that wonderful moment in the corridor).

  When the last guest leaves our hostelry,

  Clean up the bar and bring me the key.

  Then go to the kitchen and continue your work,

  It likes to be clean as you like to be fed.

  A working girl knows she can never shirk,

  She dusts and cleans and then goes to bed,

  Crosses herself, and then sleeps like the dead.

  Uncle and Auntie went out to the yard late tonight and I’m waiting for them to come and place the bar over my window, and I’m also waiting for them to disappear into their bedroom, I’m always waiting for something and most of all for my prince, who one day will come and take me away from here—

  But it’s not a fairy tale I’m waiting for.

  WHAT I WANT: human things. An orderly and satisfying life. To be happy. Someone who likes me and whom I like. My own husband, and to have children with him. Decent work. To have clothes to wear and to never be hungry.

  WHAT I DREAM ABOUT: To sit by my very own fireplace with a fire blazing away. To dance on the deck of a steamship at night in the Indian Ocean. To see Mount Everest. To walk with my lover on a slippery path in the rain and the March wind. To be certain.

  WHAT I FEAR: war, hunger, torture, death.

  I may think about men too much (a tiger’s always better than a rabbit) and I may read too many novels. But most likely I’m a normal girl who believes life can be as beautiful as Heaven and that love is the bridge up to it.

  Long after midnight a sudden shouting from the yard: “What sort of bum is hanging around out here?!” Uncle cried out. “Help! Thieves!” Auntie cried out in harmony, “You hooligan, thought you could get our Sonya by hook or by crook—”

  So once again Jakub was standing under my window. Who would have expected this of such a decent young man, who polished his shoes like a mirror every day and who went to bed every evening at 9:00 sharp. Or of Mr. Ziki, who had such a beautiful wife, Aja. Or of Mr. Ruda Mach, whom all the girls from the entire republic longed for — that beautiful moment with him today in the corridor. How his eyes shine when they look at me (he can look at me as long as he wants)! I have an inkling that something is going to happen to me. If only it would happen soon—