Four Sonyas

by Paral, VladimIr

  “And where did you work after being let go at Cottonola?” the fat manager grinned at me (I had never seen him on the highway) when he had finished his telephone conversation with Cottonola.

  “I’ve been studying for my degree exam.”

  “Well, go on studying, kitten. Five missed shifts, the sack, and then goofing off for three weeks — I’d see you here maybe twice a week, right!”

  “But I’m done with my studies and I want to do honest—”

  “Clear out!”

  I’m standing on the highway with my suitcase, biting into a green pepper.

  Engineer Kazimir Drapal (35), the director (and only employee) of the Center for Scientific, Technical and Economic Information (PS-VTEI) and PTK (the technical library) of national enterprise Cottex had done no work at work for many years (no one had noticed).

  With a briefcase of quite serious mien (it contained his morning snack, a newspaper, in summer swimming trunks and in winter skates) at precisely 6:30 he arrived at the last stop of bus No. 5 near the Vseborice post office (to do this he had to walk one station in the opposite direction of his journey: on the one hand he likes to walk, on the other hand he likes to ride in the seat right behind the driver), adroitly he always managed to enter the bus first and to sit down right behind the driver.

  His briefcase on his lap, he enjoyed looking through the large windshield of the bus, then he got out at the Hvezda Restaurant in Klise (three stations before Cottex), he passed through streets full of gardens and villas (he likes to walk) and at the Cottex entrance gate he punched in at precisely 7:00 (if he had stayed on all the way to Cottex, on the one hand he would have forfeited his walk, on the other hand he would have punched in unnecessarily early).

  With his briefcase of serious mien and a gloomy and strict expression on his face, he passed through the Cottex courtyard, climbed to the third floor, right above the cafeteria, and with his personal key unlocked the glass door with its six notices of his own making (he likes to draw):

  PS-VTEI 7-1

  QUIET! 7-3

  STUDY ROOM 7-1

  READING ROOM 1-3

  PTK 1-3

  RESPECTABLE PEOPLE KNOCK!

  PS-VTEI and PTK, as well as study room and reading room, were a single large room with two windows looking out on Strizov Mountain (a beautiful view) and another window looking out on the courtyard (a useful view), walls lined all the way to the ceiling with bookshelves, and in the corner by a window two desks: a dark-colored one for the business of PS-VTEI and a light-colored one for PTK (in reality, however, the dark desk served for correspondence, while the light one served as an armory for the years-long war which Engineer Drapal had been waging against the Cottex management).

  Kazimir Drapal suddenly cast aside both his briefcase and his gloomy expression, for a while he entertained himself with the view of Strizov Mountain (he was reflecting on the similarity of November and March), three times he walked around the room (he likes to walk) and then greedily he read the newspaper from the first to the last line (he pondered over the prospects for legalizing divorce in Italy, he sighed over Indonesia’s unsatisfactory balance of payments, he imagined himself as a partisan leader in Angola and then right away cast himself in the part of a Portuguese imperialist, he felt sympathy for the victims of the earthquake in Burma, and he condemned student riots in Tokyo), this all took him about two hours (there’s nothing in the papers nowadays!), and then with pleasure he ate his morning snack.

  Once more enjoying the view of Strizov Mountain (it’s strange that the oak leaves don’t fall), he walked three more times around his workspace, then he looked out the window into the courtyard (Look, there’s Dr. Lojda talking to Tanicka again, he engraved it in his memory), and with pleasure he seated himself at the light, de jure PTK desk, de facto, however, his armory.

  Engineer Drapal was conducting a years-long war for recognition. According to the ministerial nomenclature diagram, he had the right, as director of PS-VTEI, to request the services of another person, whom de facto he didn’t really want (his thinking would be disturbed), but de jure he fought a prolonged (and well-informed) war over it. Besides this main front, Engineer Drapal had opened up a second front in the war for recognition: according to written agreements (made a number of years before) he was to receive for his PTK functions (which involved practically no work at all) a quarterly supplement of 300 crowns, which to be sure were paid him in the form of a bonus of 100 crowns added into each month’s salary, but this way it became part of his salary as director of PS-VTEI, in consequence of which his work as director of PTK remained not only unappreciated, but totally unrecognized.

  Glancing into the thick files of his monthly Report on the Activities of PTK (for years now he had been copying and recopying it with only the slightest of changes: no one had read one in years), Engineer Drapal sat down at his ancient Urania typewriter and turned out another edition of the Report for the month of October, a modestly revised (in its word order) argument for the necessity of assigning more working forces to PS-VTEI, a further demand for the awarding of a quarterly premium for the activities of PTK, all in quadruplicate (no one had read any of this in years), he took delight in his neat paragraphs on stationery with the letterhead of natl. enterpr. Cottex, even on the pink copies, then he carried his day’s production off to the mail room, where he picked up his own mail: a letter from Czechoslovak Television in Prague, a letter from the Pakistani embassy, and sixteen personal letters, he shuffled the letters like cards and looked forward to what he would read in them (he kept looking happily forward to there being something), and then, since it was Wednesday (and because a stroll would sharpen his appetite), he went off (as vice-chairman of the Social and Housing Committee of ZV ROH, entrusted with supervision of the Cafeteria Subcommittee) to check up on the factory kitchen.

  The director of the kitchen, Jelinek, obligingly pushed a chair up to the edge of the cutting table, brought out the Journal for random examination, and asked:

  “Lungs in cream sauce or fried meatballs?”

  “A little of this, a little of that. And soup?”

  “Cream of vegetable. Real real good!”

  “Not for me. What’s for dessert?”

  “Raspberry whip. Real real spongy!”

  “All right,” said Engineer Drapal, and he watched with pleasure as Jelinek served him lungs with two dumplings, a fried meatball with two potatoes, and some well-drenched whip—all on small plates—on the edge of the cutting table.

  Nodding his head and wrinkling his nose like a connoisseur, he ate with relish all the samples for inspection and random examination and made an entry in the Journal:

  Examination of November 9: Lungs in cream sauce: taste insipid, appearance unattractive, overall within the norms. Fried meatballs: within the norms. Whip: delicious. Quite within the norms and satisfactory.

  When signing the Journal he reproached Jelinek:

  “I’ve just received six more claims that kitchen personnel are going home with suspiciously full satchels!”

  “My God, sir, there isn’t any truth in that at all!”

  “I will be forced to carry out spot-checks at the gate!”

  “My God, sir, and when would that take place?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “My God, sir, not tomorrow! There’ll be pig liver—”

  “Then day after tomorrow. And if anyone’s caught I’ll take the strictest measures!”

  “But that’s self-evident, sir, and quite fair. Tomorrow I’ll send you some sample livers—soft as butter!”

  In conclusion, Kazimir Drapal checked whether all the employees in the kitchen were wearing the prescribed head coverings and the prescribed footwear, thoroughly and with relish he looked the women over (he liked to look at women) and then suddenly he froze: beside the machine for peeling potatoes there was a piece right out of a film magazine—

  “You’ve got a new worker here…” he croaked.

  “That’s Sonya Cecho
va, they kicked her out of Cottonola and then she goofed off for a whole month. But she isn’t a bad worker—and what a looker!”

  “Have you taught her the hygienic principles?”

  “My God, sir, the moment she got here!”

  “I’ll do an inspection. Hey, you over there — come here!” and Kazimir Drapal looked the new worker over at length, mmmm, he thought, while with a gloomy and strict expression he put questions to her concerning washing your hands, her health certificate, and her previous jobs.

  “So you were studying for the degree exam…” he repeated, staring at her in wonder.

  “Yes, sir. But I’ve already learned everything and I’ll take the exam in the spring.”

  “Do you like books?”

  “Very much, sir. I read everything … newspapers, encyclopedias, even novels,” Sonya told him, and she smiled at him prettily.

  “We’ll see,” said Engineer Drapal, and he backed out of the kitchen.

  “I’ll have her bring you the samples,” said Chef Jelinek, “Real real delicate!”

  Kazimir walked around his workspace a good fourteen times, and not quite there in spirit, he sat down at his dark correspondence desk: Czechoslovak Television thanks him in its letter for his suggestion to broadcast, every half hour, the appeal “Turn down your T.V., your neighbor may not care for this program!” and informed him that the letter would be sent on to the appropriate office, the Pakistani Embassy thanked him for his congratulations on the anniversary of the Islamic Republic of Pakistan, and all sixteen personal letters had the same text:

  TAKE WALKS - REFLECT - STRIVE

  This is the highest wisdom, deciphered from the secret emerald tablet of the lamasery in Kathmandu (capital city of the Kingdom of Nepal), and it has been sent to you for good luck. It has gone around the world 9x and you should value the good luck it brings just to you. If you govern your affairs according to it, you will have 21 days of good luck. But you must send 10 copies of this letter to people you know and even to people you don’t (you may use the telephone book, for instance). In that way good luck will not pass you by. One candy maker in Lima (capital city of Peru) won 600,000 dollars and one librarian in Bangkok (capital city of Thailand) discovered that he was related to the Emperor of Japan, but when he traveled to Japan by ship he drowned, since he had broken the chain. Govern yourself by the highest wisdom, send out 10 copies, and see what happens in the next 21 days. Good luck!

  In early spring Kazimir Drapal sent out fifty copies of this epistle (he liked to write letters), but the chain was somehow broken and hundreds of epistles came back to him (he liked to get letters), today he wasn’t up to concentrating on his favorite correspondence, again and again he got up from his dark desk, marched around his workspace, and sat back down, absent-mindedly he wrote the Pakistani ambassador thanks for his thanks, and he did it in Dutch (he had mastered nine languages), he tore it out of the typewriter, crumpled it, and threw it away, walked twice around the workspace, imagined Sonya Cechova as his new assistant, swallowed to no effect, Take walks—reflect—strive! he said to himself out loud, and then he swept his correspondence into the upper drawer of the dark desk and with determination seated himself at the light one, like an artillery squadron he spread out his thick files on the desk, including copies of his endless petitions, reminders, protests, and analyses relating to the need to supply PS-VTEI with another worker, with eight carbon copies of everything and the cadence of a heavy machine-gun, he proceeded to turn out a monstrous number of documents, as if at least 600,000 dollars were at stake, plus a castle in Japan.

  Through the window where I hand out meals all I can see of the men are their hands and their stomachs. But from these I can learn surprisingly much about them—

  They wouldn’t take me on as a worker on the highway, and since I need both a job and a place to live, I took the only thing they had available that day at the People’s Commission — and now I’m an assistant in the Cottex kitchen.

  I peel potatoes, slice bread and dumplings, make puddings — just like for the Volrabs at the Hubertus, but the work here is rather more businesslike — it’s all done by machine, you work only eight hours a day, and it’s decently paid.

  “Don’t get the idea you’re going to goof off here!” Chef Jelinek raked me over the coals the first thing when they took me to see him, and the whole first day he stood behind me. But he is capable of appreciating good work, and when it occurred to me to decorate the fried meatballs with some left-over pickled red cabbage that would only have been thrown away, he praised me: “Real real nice!” and stroked my head. And when I demonstrated “Mexican goulash” à la Volrab (it looks beautiful, tastes sharp as a knife, and you can whip up a whole kettle of it out of nothing at all), he said, “Real real good!” and threw me a bar of chocolate to be shaved.

  “And starting tomorrow bring a satchel!” he added (all the women here carried them and took them back where the iceboxes are), I took this to be a command and bought myself a satchel like those all the women here in the kitchen carried, and Chef Jelinek beckoned to me then with his finger and in back at an icebox he loaded my satchel with a fine-looking steak, a bottle of Znojmo pickles, and a pouch of milk. “To let you know that now you’re one of us!” he said, and he crammed into my satchel a slab of butter (“Real real fresh!”).

  Through the window where I hand out meals all I can see of the men are their hands and their stomachs, I try to guess what the men look like (I’m studying for more degrees than just the gymnasium one), and everyone in the kitchen laughs and shows surprise at how accurate my guesses are.

  Nervous, pale, sweaty hands with manicured nails and a stomach like a sink turned inside out—I guess: “His marriage is a failure and he’s got a guilty conscience, because he chases young girls and does almost nothing at home.”

  “Then you know Dr. Lojda?” the entire kitchen is astonished.

  “No. And Dr. Lojda has a nervous stomach.”

  Two brown, boyish arms with tattoos (there were unmistakable marks left from attempts to erase them) protrude from fluttering shirtsleeves, and the hands have thick, roughed-up nails (there are unmistakable marks from attempts to beautify them—most likely made with a pocket knife), hurriedly they pick up a lunch tray and they hold it tenaciously, a flat, hard stomach. I guess: “He was in prison, but perhaps only a military one. He’s a bachelor and has no mother. And there’s a girl he’s fond of.”

  “How did you know that young Tejnora was in a military prison for three years—” “And that he’s single—” “And that he goes out with Uska Kamenikova, from the warehouse—” the entire kitchen is astonished.

  “I don’t know all that, but young Tejnora is a fine fellow.”

  Only once did I fail to make a guess: when I recognized the young, well-washed (to a rosy pink) hands, their nails trimmed short, and the firm (and white) stomach of Jakub Jagr.

  I live in the Cottex singles dorm: a large hall with massive masonry arches between tiny windows (between the arches a wire is stretched and on it are hangers with the girls’ clothes, the few wardrobes there are stand out in the hall) and the only furniture are the rows of iron beds, all of them double-deckers, between them narrow aisles leading to a little square in the center where there’s a table without a chair.

  Twenty-six girls and women live here with me and the quiet is about what you find at a train station, any hour of the day or night (at Cottex they work straight through in 6-, 8-, 12-, and 16-hour shifts, on Sundays and holidays too), girls come and go, alarmclocks ring and radios clash, and trampling, laughter, shouts, and song resound through the hall.

  Few women live here more than a week or two, they move on to better dorms, they go away to other plants and towns, they get married or go live with a friend (the last are the most likely to come back).

  Through the iron bars on my bed I can see the girls and women wash, comb their hair, and make themselves up, go to bed (morning, noon, or night) and get up (night, morning, or
noon), two by two they boogie to music on the radio or get sentimental and close their eyes, they get letters, good and bad (but not everyone), they write letters on suitcases on their laps (everyone), they snort, they babble, they rave, they weep, and they sleep lying down with their arms behind their heads (these women are right nearby).

  Afternoons I stroll through town (I don’t have to go to the reading room anymore, and I only go to the library on Thursdays to take out novels) and I look at people (I can never get enough of that), sometimes I have dinner in a restaurant (I get eleven hundred a month: I’m rich) and sometimes I stay home and prepare marvelous dinners with what I bring home in my satchel, evenings I sit on my bed, my suitcase on my lap, and write Manek letters about the new life he’s assigned me…

  I’m starting again for the third time now—

  Then I lie down on my back with my hands behind my head and dream of him.

  Mornings the men’s hands and stomachs, I pass them food through the window—this is my job and my vocation—I feed them and I identify them through the window.

  Afternoons I look at them on the streets of the town, they come out of stores and go into restaurants, they drive cars, streetcars, and trucks, they walk with their girlfriends and their wives, but if they’re walking without them, then they’re going after them or away from them or they’re waiting for them— otherwise they come up and speak to me, or at least stare at me (as do many of those who are walking with their girlfriends or their wives) and I smile prettily at them all (I need them: what would I be without them? And they interest me and make me happy), I already know the security officer who is “on duty in the main square every Tuesday and Friday until eight o’clock in the evening and after that has twenty-four hours completely free—” (as he reminds me again and again: I smile at him prettily and manage not to look too foolish doing it), I know the handsome Petr Junk pushing his baby carriage with his beautiful wife Marie, I know the hairy Vit from Cottonola hauling Ivanka in Cenek’s red Skoda MB and I know Cenek, who secretly stuffs himself with sweets at the milk bar (where they’re cheapest), I know Lumirek, gawking at the jewelry store windows and then buying copper wire, for buttons officers’ gold stars, and glass Christmas tree ornaments from which to assemble new cufflinks, I know Petrik Metelka, whose ears are red as shepherds around a graceful fifteen-year-old gypsy girl in an outfit made of glossy red artificial leather, a cigarette between her painted, childish lips, I know two near-pensioners from Vseborice who guzzle Plzner at the World Cafeteria, I know the train dispatcher, whom I got on well with at the Palace Restaurant, the dentist who courted me at the Café Bohemia, my young and clever engineer from the glassworks, who sacrificed a good hundred crowns to have tea with me at the Hotel Savoy, I know them all, I know what they want and what they need, what they think of themselves and the sort of impression they want to make, and I know how to deal with them, to arouse them and to pour cold water on them, to listen to them and to manage them without their knowing it, and perhaps even how to make them happy — oh, Manek … so that one day they will build me a home.