I smile prettily at everyone, they speak to me or at least look at me (I know that all of them would like to have me), I guess what sort of lives I might have lived with them, and in the evening I lie in bed with my hands behind my head and dream of them all, all those whom I would like to bring together in one husband, my Manek.
Towards morning I was suddenly awakened by tramping, shouts, and confusion: in the bed above me Slavka (a tall, skinny, forty-year-old blonde who sings better than anyone else here) had been seized with sharp labor pains.
Outside the iron bars at the foot and the head of my bed, racing and leaping, were bare women’s calves and thighs, bare women’s hands reaching toward the bed above me and bearing the groaning Slavka down from her bed, and like the sacred Host they place her on the table, piled high with blankets (all the books, bottles, plates, eating utensils, and framed photos of men have been swept onto the floor), tenderly they wrap her in sheets and blankets and put four pillows under her head — a burning desire to help Slavka grows within me and I squeeze my way through a crowd of trembling, agitated women, I push away warm arms, chests, stomachs, and thighs and am pushed away by them in turn, we all want to help her somehow, any way we can.
And when two male nurses take her off to the health center (we hand Slavka over to them reluctantly: they’re only men), none of us can fall asleep and for a long time we don’t scatter to our beds, we talk about Slavka (the one who did it to her is married and long gone) and she comes out a saint.
“Her favorite song is the one about a star…”
The hunchbacked girl, who has been here the longest and who sleeps right by the door, begins to sing and one after another we join in, the song flows together and gets louder, outside the windows the sun is coming up and the dull glow is coming in through the windows underneath our dresses, which are hanging on the line, those who are coming in from the night shifts and those who are getting up to join the morning shifts stop at the doorway and in the aisles and once again all of us sing the song about a star, about longing and hope.
Over lunch in the plant cafeteria a lot of business can be taken care of — time is more than money, Engineer Jakub Jagr (recently promoted to the rank of manager at the initiative of the plant director himself and entrusted by him with the important task of continuity) set his lunch tray down next to Engineer Ludvik Ludvik (he is important and powerful) and even before the first spoonful of soup he started doing business.
“That could conceivably be interesting…” Engineer Ludvik said slowly, “but it isn’t clear how you would resolve the problem of continuity within the limits of feasible investment … Jagr! Has something happened to you?”
About to put a soup spoon in his mouth (his open mouth), Jakub Jagr froze and turned pale, as if he had just beheld a fata morgana: through the kitchen issue window he had caught sight of Sonya’s hair, now growing back like flowing, shining copper—and then her eyes like warm moist emeralds—
“I was asking you how would resolve the problem of continuity within the limits of feasible investment—” Engineer Ludvik Ludvik repeated, quite without effect: in his present state Jakub Jagr couldn’t even resolve problems of continuity involving the flushing of toilets—not even if he had had at his disposal a billion pounds sterling. Lunch with the important and powerful L.L. ended painfully.
Soaked with icy sweat (however, his temperature was a warm 98.6° Fahrenheit and his pulse 190) Jakub walked back and forth along the dark corridor in front of the cafeteria, in total confusion he neglected to greet Irma Ingrisova (even more powerful than the plant director) and nearly ran into Chief Engineer Ryvola. Jakub, now quite incapable of appearing before his own subordinates, locked himself in the WC (but you can’t pace there) and then quite in despair ran upstairs to the plant’s technical library (PTK).
“Greetings and welcome—” Engineer Kazimir Drapal blurted out from behind his light desk, he was amazed (normally no one ever comes to the PTK), he got up quickly to wait on (and by the same token evict as quickly as possible) his young colleague who was rising so successfully at Cottex (Kazimir Drapal knows everything about Cottex), “—what can I do for you, Mr. Jagr?”
“I just… It struck me simply… Have you got … a Portuguese dictionary?” Jakub said in total confusion.
“Of course we do, naturally, certainly. I have the large Zimmermann-Jara, the small Dobsinsky-Schmitze, an Italo- Portuguese dictionary of marine terminology, and Portugal in Pictures, of course that’s in Swedish and from the year 1893 … Perhaps it would be best if you were to leave your text here and in the course of … let’s say two to three weeks … or a month I will give you an authorized translation in six copies.”
“Y-y-yes, or rather, no…” Jakub forced the words out, “I only… I only need a couple of expressions … What’s the Portuguese for continuity?”
“Kontinualisacion,” said Kazimir Drapal (admittedly he didn’t know Portuguese, but he did know nine similar Indo-European languages and with the aid of an array of dictionaries, as well as his imagination, he might even have translated a Korean patent application).
“Y-y-yes. And investment?”
“Investicion,” Kazimir Drapal conjectured, without moving an eyebrow.
“Aha … and copper? Emeralds?”
“Kupro,” said Kazimir, gazing out the window at Strizov Mountain with a bored look on his face (if the oak doesn’t shed its leaves, is the oak not then a coniferous tree? he reflected), and without moving an eyebrow he said “Emraldos.”
“Yes, certainly. You’ve been a great help to me. I have to go now … I see you’ve got a mass of work and I wouldn’t wish to …”
“I’m really over my head in work!” Kazimir rejoiced (Jagr would be an immensely valuable ally in my war for recognition and for that wonderful girl in the kitchen) and in a few seconds (he had been doing this frequently and for many years now) he’d piled on Jakub monstrous heaps of his endless petitions, reminders, protests, and analyses concerning the need for an assistant at PS-VTEI, and so persuasive was his insistence that even the accounts inspector would have supported Sonya out of his own pay.
“Yes … Of course … Certainly…” Jakub replied, thinking (like all the others he was caught off guard) how to escape from there, and when no end appeared to be in sight he hastily walked to the door and, with his hand on the handle (like so many others caught off guard), announced: “Certainly you are one hundred percent correct, but you know, where money…”
“But it would be practically free, for a mere eleven hundred—who would do the job today for that kind of money—”
“Whom would you get for that—” said Jakub, already out in the corridor.
“But I’ve already found a suitable assistant, and she’d be cheap as an Indian—” Kazimir called out, he was already in the corridor himself, right behind Jakub, who was running down the stairs, “an immensely intelligent girl from the kitchen with excellent qualifications and well-developed talents, a marked interest in technical as well as all other kinds of literature—”
“What’s her name?” said Jakub, and suddenly he stopped (one floor down by now).
“Sonya Cechova, and—”
A minute later Jakub was already back at Kazimir’s light desk, rethinking the idea (here I’d be able to come see her whenever I liked) he pushed away the files of Kazimir’s unsuccessful barbs (“Eleven hundred, you said?” was all he asked) so he could reach the telephone and ask the plant director (his benign protector) to supply an assistant to the staff of PS-VTEI, “who would also be available for assistance with research on continuity.”
“Engineer Drapal recommends a young woman comrade, employed at this time in our kitchen,” Jakub said into the mouthpiece, “…eleven hundred … I think so … I would train her myself, if need be … thank you … The comrade can start on Monday,” he told Kazimir and left PS-VTEI, PTK, study room and reading room.
At 3:30 Jakub Jagr walked down Valley Street past the Jagrs’ garden
fence with its blue gate, and in through the silver-gray gate next door, into the Orts’ garden, and entered the yellow villa which was now his home.
In the hall Mother Ortova (his mother-in-law) glanced up at him from her rocking chair (father-in-law Ort would come downstairs from his room on the third floor in time for dinner).
“How’s work?”
“Nothing special.”
“Kamila’s upstairs.”
“That’s where I’m going.”
(The wedding of Engineer Jakub Jagr and Kamila Ortova had taken placed on September 22, precisely on the date already fixed last Christmas vacation).
Jakub climbed the stairs to the newlyweds’ living room on the second floor (yellowish furniture of natural oak made illegally by former master carpenter Janecek for an even 30,000 crowns) and kissed his wife Kamila on the forehead (she was smoking again).
“How’s work?”
“Nothing special. What are you reading?”
“Apfelbaum’s essay on alienation.”
“I’m going to take a bath.”
Jakub spent two hours in the bathtub (as opposed to his usual fifty minutes).
“You’ve been bathing for two hours—” said Kamila.
“I was thinking. Are you still reading?” “If you want, I can put it down and we can play some canasta.”
“No thanks. I’m going to take a look at the car.”
In the garage (exactly the same as the Jagrs’: the two families had built them together) Jakub unlocked the car, to keep from being disturbed (I can only be by myself in the bathtub and in the garage, but my wife even comes looking for me here) he took off the tachometer and all its multicolored wires and, with his face against the steering wheel, he remained there without moving until dinner time.
“What’s wrong with you today?” asked Kamila, wearing her nightgown of yellow nylon (the feel of nylon makes me shudder and Kamila will always be like a relative to me), and she lit a Peer cigarette (Father Ort spoils her: he wants to have a grandchild as soon as possible) when Jakub, after an hour’s simulation of reading, reached his hand out toward his bedside lamp.
“I’ve got a headache. Good night, dear,” said Jakub, and he turned off the light (from now on I’ll be afraid of the dark and afraid that Kamila will turn off her light at the same time as me).
“My love—” whispered Kamila, and she turned off her bedside lamp.
Two days later Staff Sergeant Jagr summoned (with four piercing whistles from the bay observation-window of the white villa) his son Jakub to the Jagrs’ garage (the women in the yellow and white villas couldn’t breathe for all the suspense), he banged the heavy doors shut behind him and, tugging at his short gray crewcut, he stood on the right side of the blue family van (Jakub had taken his place on the left).
“What’s wrong?” he barked in the darkness.
“Sonya,” Jakub said with difficulty.
“Hmm!! Hm! Nonsense. Hmm! Hm! HMM! HM-MMM!!!”
The staff sergeant raged as never before. Of course, Dad wants to have grandchildren as soon as possible. It’s hard to fool him and even harder to make him happy.
I can’t live with Sonya, and even less without her—
“What will I be doing?”
“Everything and nothing!” Engineer Kazimir Drapal cried out in joy, my new boss disappeared behind a row of bookshelves and then reappeared: “Be happy here!” but then he disappeared again behind another row of shelves and reappeared: “We’ll be happy here together!” and again he ducked behind a row of shelves and kept walking round and round his maze — it seems that this gentleman likes to walk.
On Saturday Chef Jelinek crammed my satchel close to breaking in honor of my departure: “…so you won’t forget us up there!”, then he gave me a greasy kiss on the forehead and shoved another whole roll of ham salami under my arm (“Real real succulent!”), on Sunday I fed his gifts to the whole singles dorm, and on Monday morning I took over my new position as documentarist of PS-VTEI and assistant librarian of PTK for twelve hundred crowns a month, as had been recorded in the letter of appointment.
“Those scoundrels!” Engineer Drapal vituperated over my appointment. “Bandits! Villains!”
“But I’m quite satisfied with the pay.”
“Sonya, dear child. It’s true, of course, they did give you a hundred more then the official minimum—I won’t hide from you that I worked hard for that—but that wretched hundred destroyed my efforts over many years to obtain recognition for a four-year bonus for PTK as well as recognition for PTK as an independent functioning unit … Pecuniarily, it comes out exactly the same, but my long-time battle is frustrated, my prestige is besmirched and defiled—” thus lamenting, Drapal ducked behind a row of shelves, but reemerging he again shouted in triumph: “—but on the main front a colossal victory has been won: I now have an assistant! Victoria! Victory! Victoire! Sieg!”
“Everything and nothing!” was the answer my new boss gave again and again to my repeated questions concerning what I was going to do there (it was almost time for lunch and still all he could do was shout about his victory), Take walks—observe—reflect! I’ll tell you the rest when the time comes.
So I began to walk (since that was now my job and what I was paid to do) around the sets of bookshelves (they stand at an angle to the walls, they reach all the way up to the ceiling, and there are fourteen of them in all: all of them are bulging like liver sausage), my boss walked at the same time I did, and when he met me he shouted in triumph and I smiled at him prettily.
It wasn’t long before I got a nice grasp of what was what. The first set of bookshelves was boringly crammed with the black (and dusty) spines of bound journals, including the Chemisches Zentralblatt (from 1905), the Referativnij dzurnal (from 1945), and Chemical Abstracts (sporadic issues), the remaining space was filled with stray volumes, such as the Jahrbuch der Pharmazie or the Czech Bulletin of the Society of Retail Druggists and Chemists. This first set of bookshelves carried the sign SCIENCE AND TECHNOLOGY, written in black ink.
The second set of bookshelves, FOREIGN-LANGUAGE DICTIONARIES (the sign was written in crayon and each language was painted with violet watercolor), was somewhat more colorful and the spines here were tremendous, I was most fascinated by the Tamil-Urdu Dictionary.
“Do you know Tamil or Urdu?” I remarked to my boss as I passed him.
“Take walks—observe—reflect and everything will become clear to you,” he said and disappeared behind a row of shelves.
It all began to become clear to me when I discovered that all twelve remaining sets of shelves carried the identical sign MISCELLANEOUS (each of the twelve signs was made differently, all they had in common was that they were multicolored) and miscellaneous they were: right from the start, alongside the 1944 timetable of the German State Railways was a splendidly illustrated Woman in Pictures, and beside it an Intermediate Theory of Chess, and then How to Spend 365 Days a Year, The Beekeeper’s Handbook, and You Are Becoming a Young Man.
This last title caught my interest, but hardly had I read that “… more than any other time of life, you must now keep your restraint and observe the rules,” than out from behind the set of bookshelves (I hadn’t even heard the door open) came Jakub Jagr. He said nothing and gazed at me dolefully. But it’s the man who’s supposed to greet the woman, so I said nothing and gazed at him calmly over my open book.
“Sonya…” he finally got out.
“Jakub?”
“How are things with you?”
“Thanks for asking. And you?”
“Always the same…”
With deep satisfaction I saw the wedding ring on Jakub’s hand—
“You’ve already married Kamila?”
“Yes. Already…”
—the only still unfulfilled command from Manek LEAVE JAKUB TO KAMILA was now completely fulfilled.
“Congratulations. And give my best to your wife.”
“Sonya, I must tell you—”
; “If you would kindly allow me, Mr. Jagr,” Engineer Drapal suddenly intervened in the conversation after emerging from behind a set of shelves, “my new documentarist and assistant librarian has not yet received her training and so kindly make do with me. What do you need to say in Portuguese today?”
“Today—nothing,” Jakub grinned with rage. “Only—this is a personal request—translate I’ll come back again! for me.”
“Ich komme nie wieder,” said Engineer Drapal, without moving an eyebrow. “‘I’ll never come again.’ Ya nepridu uzhe nikogda—” and went on in other languages until Jakub withdrew from my new workplace.
“Do you know him, Sonya?” asked Drapal, ducking behind the bookshelves and popping back out again.
“I worked at his house as a servant.”
“I hope you have no desire to do that again.”
“Not the slightest.”
“Nor do I intend to be his servant. He’s a stuck-up technical boor. Conquering is difficult, but more difficult is holding the conquered territory. Until you’ve been fully trained—until you’ve read all these books—I’ll deal with outsiders myself.”
Four Sonyas Page 30