Four Sonyas

by Paral, VladimIr

  The two roommates are first-rate too. Ivanka (before she said a word, she lit a cigarette) is a bit thin, blonde (out of a bottle of peroxide, most likely), has clever eyes and will be a lot of fun. Barborka (she rushed to the kitchen and came back into the room with her mouth full) is a pudgy brunette (probably from the beauty shop), at first glance good-natured, she certainly won’t spoil the fun.

  Barborka brought in a bottle of chilled Morella griotte (“Clink, so we can be friends—”), and before Ivanka had even finished her cigarette (in five minutes) the girls were getting along just as if they’d been friends for two years already.

  “He’s gorgeous…” Barborka sighed over Manek’s photo.

  “But he must be pushing thirty, right?” said Ivanka, and she lit another cigarette.

  “I’d like to get my hands on him,” Barborka sighed, and then she went off to the kitchen to spread another slice of bread with lard.

  “The guys here aren’t worth a damn,” said Ivanka, shaking her head with distaste. “But you’ll find that out for yourself—”

  At that moment in walked a sixteen-year-old boy with a mighty mane of hair, washed, shampooed, laboriously curled, scented, and sprayed — he wore this ornament of manhood like a crown, beneath which his small pale pimply face was nearly lost. He was wearing a bright white shirt with enormous silver cufflinks, supercilious jeans, and gleaming black patent-leather shoes.

  “Phew—” he sighed in the doorway, and he disappeared just as he had appeared.

  “What was that?”

  “Lumirek, from the second floor,” Barborka said with her mouth full.

  “He retouches drawings in the technical division and he finds the world painful and disgusting,” said Ivanka, breathing smoke out of her nose.

  “How did he get in here so quietly?” Sonya was surprised. “Does he have a key to our room?”

  “We removed the doorlock ourselves,” said Barborka, and with her finger she spread the lard all the way to the end of the slice, so her last bite would be as tasty as the others.

  “Because those oafs downstairs are so lazy,” said Ivanka, “if they had to knock, they’d just as soon stay in their bunks.”

  In a moment, an older young man with long, slicked-down hair appeared, stared at Sonya for a while, then walked around her to inspect her from all sides, and then, without a single word, vanished.

  “That’s Cenek, I’ve been going out with him for four years now,” Barborka sighed, “only with him it’s no go.”

  “You made a great impression on him,” Ivanka said to Sonya and lit a cigarette.

  “But how come he didn’t give out a single peep?” asked Sonya.

  “Because you completely bowled him over,” Barborka said mournfully, and she went off to spread a slice of bread.

  Before Ivanka could polish off her cigarette, Cenek and Lumirek came back again, this time with a tall, tanned, powerfully built fellow, overgrown with black fur except for his balding head (“That’s Vit, he’s their chief and he’s going with Ivanka—” Barborka whispered to Sonya), as well as a pale young man (“That’s Pavel Abrt, in a little while he’ll fall asleep—”), who sat down on the floor in the corner and in a little while fell asleep.

  “Lanimir wasn’t just feeding us a line,” Vit said after some time, during which he had seated himself on Sonya’s daybed and, with his head propped up on his elbow, proceeded to inspect Sonya like a connoisseur.

  “Lanimir will come this evening,” Ivanka told Sonya; “he’s at the library now writing a novel.”

  “Girls, I’d like something to eat,” Vit said matter-of-factly, and Barborka rushed off to the kitchen.

  The men ate a lot but didn’t have much to say. Vit and Cenek talked shop during the few pauses when they weren’t staring at Sonya. Lumirek kept pulling his cuffs out and declaring things “a tremendous bore” or simply sticking his nose in the air and saying “Pfff—.” And, most exceptionally, Pavel Abrt woke up to eat.

  Barborka kept on going to the kitchen and bringing back slices of bread spread with lard, bacon, bloody headcheese, and bottles of beer (but for her Cenek, nothing but weak tea with five cubes of sugar in each cup). Ivanka went on smoking and casting provocative, taunting, coquettish, tender, and various other sorts of looks at Vit — without the slightest perceptible effect. At each man separately and at all collectively, Sonya smiled prettily.

  Late in the evening Lanimir Sapal galloped in, grabbed a slice of bread in each of his hands, sat down on the daybed right next to Sonya, asked in detail about the story of her life, and then with reckless abandonment spouted forth volumes about sea battles, about Lion Feuchtwanger, about the mining of emeralds in Zambia, about Sonya’s eyes, about physical chemistry, about Sonya’s hair, about Françoise Sagan, about Sonya’s mouth, about forty ways to write a worldwide ‘bestseller,’ about Sonya’s teeth, about the mystical significance of food in the novels of Rabelais, Gogol, Hasek, and Paral, and when he got to Sonya’s shoulders Vit got up, smiled at Sonya and, in the next five minutes, all the men (Pavel Abrt was woken up by a kick from Vit) quickly vanished.

  “You made a fantastic impression on them,” Ivanka told Sonya with deep admiration. “They were downright polite today.”

  “And they ate much more than they did when Majka came.” Barborka was in awe but happy.

  After the men’s departure, the girls no longer had to be shy, Barborka went to the kitchen and brought back all that was left of the five-pound loaf of bread and all that was left of the two pounds of lard (her Cenek didn’t like it when Barborka ate too much), and Ivanka lit one cigarette after another (her Vit didn’t like it when Ivanka smoked too much).

  The girls bewailed the men’s imperfections and polished off the bottle of Morella griotte (“If we’d have offered it to the guys there would have been a free-for-all—”), together they ate canned Chinese pineapple (“That would have been wasted on those lazy oafs—”) and they didn’t let Sonya go to sleep until she’d promised that she would work on those oafs somehow, since she’d made such a stirring first impression on them.

  Sonya promised and then asked Ivanka if she could go along to night school with her. Ivanka said, of course she could, and Sonya rejoiced (I can get my diploma here!), lay down on her daybed, sighed with happiness (is it possible that when I got up this morning I was still a servant at the Jagrs’…), and fell asleep at once.

  At 5:45 in the morning, she stuck her brand new pink card into the time clock at the Cottonola gate, walked along the pool (originally a water basin for putting out fires caused by air raids), crossed herself, went into Engineer Sapal’s office, and smiled at him prettily.

  In the morning, Engineer Sapal tended to be irritable, even angry (unless—or more frequently—until he’d taken a nap), today, however, he was smooth shaven (all four of his shops were discussing this heatedly and at length) and he was even wearing a new shirt (he hadn’t even worn one the time that woman Minister of Light Industry paid a visit to Cottonola), he entered into a long, candid conversation with Sonya, which lasted almost until coffee break, and then he turned her over to her foreman to be trained.

  The drying-room foreman is the beautiful Marie Junkova, she chatted with me almost till lunch and in half an hour’s time I had it all mastered. And it’s just as lovely here as it was at the Hrusov Cottex, where I wanted so much to be…

  Marecek, a funny old man, wheels wet heaps of damask and handkerchiefs on a cart that runs on tracks, and each time he tells a joke as old as the Austro-Hungarian Empire. And we girls, always two by two (Marie is paired with Barborka and I’m with Ivanka), load a heap into the drier which then does everything itself (it’s big as a bus and it takes its time), and then we pick up the dried heaps and place them on a stand, and old Marecek (each time he tells another joke) takes them on to the finishing room.

  In the drying room it’s warm as a sauna (so all we wear are bras and shorts, Ivanka wears a bikini and I’m going to buy one too) and the light’s n
ice and subdued, like a bedroom, from the jaws of the machines there’s a rosy glow, like a fireplace, from a radio there’s music the whole shift long (when an announcer starts talking too much, Barborka turns it off and puts on a cassette of nice, swinging hits), what we do is more like ballet than athletics (one can’t really call it work), we dance the whole shift through—

  A machine has its whims (but it’s as if it just wants to tease us a little—it’s really good-natured), but it always obeys Marie Junkova like a puppy and keeps on growling peacefully. And the dry fabric smells of ironing and home, of childhood and mama…

  After the shift is over, I take a shower and, wonderfully rested and refreshed, I take the streetcar to go shopping in town. I buy a new dress, a green bikini for work, De Luxe toothpaste, Renaissance cologne—to rid myself of all that military prison pay from Staff Sergeant Jagr—a pale green handkerchief for Manek and pink stationery for writing, Club butter cookies for breakfast and for dinner a quarter loaf of bread and a bottle of milk — and with what’s left of the money ten dekas of chocolate-covered cherries: on Tuesday I get an advance on my seignorial appanage from kind Aunt Cottonola.

  The security officer was standing in the middle of the main square saluting me from afar, he would like to go anywhere with me, whatever it took, and the same longing was displayed by some five guys (some of them grown men) in the streetcar, in stores, and on the sidewalk — but men and boys, it’s so sweet to be single… And I’ve got a husband already, Manek.

  Back home in my room the whole crew of men from the second floor was waiting for me (except for Sapal, who would turn up only after he had finished working on his novel), and big Vit himself made room for me on the daybed (Ivanka hissed with astonishment and Barborka rolled her eyes).

  It seemed to me that Vit had shaved closer today than the day before, Cenek wore new shoes which evidently pinched (but he didn’t dare take them off), Lumirek was dressed in an unbelievable shirt with a rich nylon fichu, gold cufflinks (probably from some fair) as large as eggs, and Pavel Abrt dozed off briefly and no more than two or three times — I did nothing, only smiled prettily at them all—and at each of them separately.

  But when my cheeks began to hurt from all that smiling (Mr. Sapal had turned up by then and had at once begun to ask me about my feelings, premonitions, and unconscious desires) and since the men did nothing but eat (even more than the day before), I suggested that I sing something to liven up the party.

  They all sat dumbfounded — apparently nothing like this had ever happened here before. But then, with lots of enthusiasm, Barborka brought out her cassette player and for a while I sang along with her nice, swinging hits and—since the men were eating even more vigorously—I danced for a while, too. Beyond that I can’t report anything — the men frantically tossed down what was left of the provisions in our kitchen (yesterday, at least, we had still managed to save the Chinese pineapple), and colliding with each other they marched out in a state of confusion.

  “You’re a real enchantress…” Barborka told me, and from excitement and hunger she ground her teeth together on nothing at all.

  “You really impressed those oafs today,” Ivanka laughed, and in high spirits she lit a fat Cuban cigar.

  Then all three of us sang for a while and merrily retired to our beds. I have read a lot of novels, largely set in castles, ocean liners, film studios, and worldly Parisian hotels (in which more than half of all novels wearily play themselves out), but never have I read how sweet life can be in nothing more than industrial old Usti n. L.

  Moist and troubled was how the final night of that unusual August came in through my window. Trembling in the sky was the orange glow of eternally roaring traffic and its metallic rattle reached my ears like the voice of a faraway storm, the soft rumble of eternally hurtling trains, men singing and, on the other side of the wall, the beautiful Marie Junkova’s child crying — the scent of metal, motors, and men is everywhere in this city that never goes to sleep, and it is the scent of excitement, of being thrilled, this city’s special scent.

  Vit and Cenek lay on their red daybeds in their privileged (just two beds, because steadily inhabited for twenty years) room for singles on the second floor, they stared at the ceiling and they were already on their second hour of talking about Sonya.

  “She’s…” said Vit.

  “High-tension,” said Cenek.

  “That too. She’s…”

  “Electrolytic.”

  “That too. She…”

  “Emits electrons.”

  “That too. She’s…”

  “Electromagnetic.”

  “Very.”

  “Will you make it with her?”

  “That too. Let’s go.”

  Cenek went to wet his hair under the waterpipe (like someone who puts on a tux covered with medals) and Vit dug some new socks out of his trunk (a tux covered with Orders and a red sash across his breast) and then he played with his trophies for a while: locks of girls’ hair and a full box of their shoes: Zdenka, Ola, two Mankas, Hilda, three Veras, Anezka, Trudi, two Helgas, Monika, Barborka, Ivanka, Majka…

  Vit began to whistle and, in good spirits, he pulled on his new socks.

  Cenek came out of the Cottonola gate and looked at his battered pocket watch (he had found it one night at the bus depot, the knob was missing so he had to wind it with pliers, frequently it would stop, but if you tapped on the crystal it would run again for a while): Hell’s bells, could it be one minute before or after 2:00 P.M. on the nose? I’m terribly nervous—

  Yesterday Vit put on his new socks to impress Sonya and in her room he put his arm around her shoulders — that’s the way Vit always begins. And just as I always used to think that was a blast, now it makes me feel nauseous and sad and faint and who knows what else—

  Cenek looked at his pocket watch (2:00) and realized that he was about to have another attack. What’ll I do, I can’t go to Sonya’s till three—

  In wholehearted pain he unlocked his wardrobe and then the three locks of his cardboard suitcase (two provided by the manufacturer and the third, a padlock, originally the property of Cottonola, Cenek had added himself), he counted his ready cash (28,522.25 crowns), it made his heart bleed to take out 22.25 crowns — he was on the point of putting this gigantic sum back, but the attack made itself known in the form of a stifling constriction of his throat — he quickly locked all three locks, locked the suitcase back in the wardrobe and, at a moderate trot (I don’t take the streetcar while I’m paying taxes for my car), he ran all the way to the milk bar on the square (the cheapest place to get it).

  The otherwise thrifty Cenek suffered from a maniacal passion for sweets, the satisfaction of his body’s desires could exceed by many times his monthly budget of fifty crowns. Therefore, when the passion rose to the level of unbearable agony, he appeased it with scientifically proven anti-alcohol therapy: he stuffed himself so on sweets that for an entire month he could no longer bear to look at them (he figured out that this would be cheaper than eating sweets every day).

  In addition, this massive appeasement was (at no extra cost) capable of dispelling depression. Cenek did not suffer from depression more often than twice a year (the last time was when a ticket inspector nailed him riding a train without a ticket and Cenek had to buy it and pay a fine of forty, forty, FORTY, FORTY crowns. — Owww!) and in the interests of economy he always made sure that the dispelling of his depression occurred on the same day as the therapy for his attack (so that depression, no matter how deep, sometimes had to wait weeks to be dispelled).

  Cenek thought of Vit’s new socks and, choking, he ordered ten Linzer tortelets (the most effective sweet substance for 1 crown), gulped them down as quickly as possible (sweets are most disgusting that way), thought of Vit’s arm around Sonya’s shoulder, and quickly wolfed down ten more Linzers, he still had 2.25 crowns left so he made himself think of Sonya smiling prettily at Vit, in desperation he bought two and a quarter dekas of pure sugar with the
money he had left, but it had no effect whatsoever, Cenek dolefully tapped on the crystal of his pocket watch until it finally cracked (it was already starting to crack at the bus station), besides everything else he now had to shop for a new crystal for his watch…

  And on account of Sonya I still have to gobble down a dairy bar and a whole sugar refinery—

  Lumirek firmly believed that correctly chosen cufflinks could win any woman.

  Right when he came home from Cottonola he washed his hair with shampoo and tepid beer and, with curlers in his mane, flung his newest shirt with a luxuriant nylon fichu and lacework on the sleeves over the back of his chair, and like a painter standing with his pallette in front of a fresh canvas, he stood over his shirt and his cufflink collection, which he kept in a ten-pound sugar box.

  The beaten silvers and oval golds are out: Sonya has already seen them. Lumirek took out his most expensive pair (imitation Egyptian scarab and nickel) and tried them on his cuffs: they didn’t say much.

  He picked out one pair of cufflinks after another and evaluated each of them empirically with bowed head and squinting eyes: imitation antique coins, blue saucers, yellow rectangles, black glass, a plate-metal dollar sign — it’s a bore, they don’t turn out anything decent these days…

  With a feeling of deep distaste for the world he dug down to the bottom of the box for his ladies’ earrings, known as “clip-ons,” which can sometimes be used in emergencies: green frogs, chrysanthemums, ladybugs, cherries, blue prisms, orange fish—it’s a terrible bore when you don’t have anything to wear…

  Tears worked their way into Lumirek’s eyes, and he wept for his miserable life (and his hair that wouldn’t dry), and gazing with rage at that miserable fleabag of a room, through the dewy veil of his eyelids he suddenly caught sight of something new—

  He wiped away the tears with his sleeve, and in a sudden burst of inspiration picked up a box of matches left by Lanimir Sapal. They would be just the right size … I CAN MAKE MY OWN CUFFLINKS—