The Little Town Where Time Stood Still

  “What have you done with your hair?” said Francin, holding his number three lettering pen in his quivering fingers.

  “Here it is,” said I, leaning my bicycle on the wall, lifting the carrier and handing him those two heavy plaits. Francin stuck his pen behind his ear and weighed those dead tresses and laid them out on the bench. Then he unfastened the pump from the bicycle frame.

  “I’m pumped up enough,” I said, expertly feeling the front and back tyres.

  But Francin unscrewed the rubber tube inside the pump.

  “The pump’s all right too,” I said, uncomprehending.

  All of a sudden Francin leapt at me, he bent me over his knee, tucked up my skirt and whipped me over the backside, and I wondered with a shock, was my underwear clean and had I washed? And was I sufficiently covered? And Francin whipped me and the cyclists nodded in contentment and the three lady members of the amenity society watched me as if they had ordered this rendering of satisfaction.

  And Francin stood me back on the ground, I pulled down my skirt, and Francin was handsome there, his nostrils flared and quivered just like when he quelled the run-away horses.

  “Right, lass,” he said, “we start a new life.”

  And he bent down and picked up his number three lettering pen from the ground, then he screwed the rubber hose back in the pump and stuck the pump in the clips on my bicycle frame.

  I took the pump and showed it to the cyclists and said:

  “I bought this cycle pump at Runkas’s on Boleslav Road.”

  THE LITTLE TOWN WHERE TIME STOOD STILL

  1

  On my way home from school I liked to rush down to the landing place by the river where the sand-barges lay, boats with planks running down from them where the sand-diggers carted away loads in barrows from great heaps of wet sand, they loaded the sand up so lightly with their shovels, it looked as if they were scooping up featherweight sprinkly cloud, which glittered in the sun with every tiny nugget of sand flickering in rainbow colours. Once I asked to be allowed to load one barrowful of that sand which came tumbling down from the hills, and if it wasn’t dredged up, the Elbe would surely roll it down to Hamburg and out to sea, but when I tried to lift the shovel I thought at first I’d caught it on a plate at the bottom of the boat, I had to plunge the wet shovel into that hill of sand again, and then, slowly and laboriously, as if hauling it out of tar or gum arabic, I lifted the shovel above the plank, but I couldn’t get it in the barrow, it fell out of my hands and the sand-diggers laughed at me and I saw them bare from the waist up, each sand-digger had his hands tattooed with anchors and ladies, and one digger had me spellbound, on his chest he had a little boat tattooed, a sailing ship, I looked and the tears welled up in my eyes, not tears of weeping, but with knowledge and certainty, that I too had to have a little boat like that tattooed on my chest, I wouldn’t be able to live without it, a boat like that must warm the very cockles of your soul, it’s an emblem of the soul, and I’m going to have one too. I said, “That little ship you have, will it wash off?” But the sand-digger lightly took his ten-kilo shovelfuls and hurled them into the barrow, now he slung away the last wet shovelful, leapt on to the plank, chucked away the gleaming empty shovel so tidily it sank into a pile of sand, as he bent over I almost touched the little boat on his chest, he ran merrily along the plank, bare feet sticking out of the blue overalls, he had to shove it up the slope where the plank ended, and there he turned the barrow and ran back with it empty, sat himself down on the plank beside me, lit a cigarette and drew the smoke into his lungs with such force that the cigarette almost burst into flame, its red tip glowed so bright, and I watched as the boat swelled on the sand-digger’s chest, as he took in a long deep breath, the boat practically moved, as it got bigger, as if coming into harbour under full sail . . . and then the sand-digger breathed out and the boat got smaller and smaller, as if sailing off, and all the time it was swelling like that on the waves and dipping, as the digger breathed out, as his heart thumped, and the effort pumped the blood around the body. “So you’re right set on having one, eh?” the sand-digger said, surprised, seeing my tears. “Yes,” I said, “I’d like to have one just like that too. How much does a boat like that cost?” And he twisted his arm round and showed me a mermaid and then he said, “They did me that for a bottle of rum in Hamburg.” And I said, “Do they only do those boats in Hamburg?” I was stunned, but the sand-digger laughed and shook his head and breathed out consoling words with the smoke, telling me that this anchor here and this pierced heart there were the work of Lojza, who hangs out at the Bridge Inn, he did it for just one shot of rum. “And would he do me one too?” The sand-digger jumped to his feet, tugged at his falling overalls, raised his cap and said, “Aye he would . . .” and he gave his sweaty cap a wringing and I got a shock, the man was sunburnt as an Indian or an ad for suntan oil, but since he always wore his cap to keep the sun off, his whole brow was white, marked off by a rim from the rest of his body, white as the halos worn by the martyrs in the Decanal Church of Our Lord, a brow with rays of light streaming out on all sides, like a convex mirror with the sun reflecting off it into every point of the compass. And I ran, clutching in my palms the straps of my school satchel, with its sea-going ship woven into the blue oilcloth, I ran, my sailor’s cap with its black band and its double bow at the back shook, and the collar of my sailor’s jacket poked out of the straps of my satchel full of schoolbooks and jotters, and the jacket flapped behind, and the black bow bobbed, zigzagging this way and that to the rhythm of my running like a ship’s bell, a ship’s buoy, and I knew, that soon I too would have a little indelible vessel tattooed on my chest, a sailing ship to which I would always be true, for never could I be anything but a sailor now.

  Dean Spurný, the priest I used to help serve holy mass, was the first person I wanted to tell of my desire, this desire to have a boat tattooed on my chest, because he too, to show his obedience to God, had had his hair trimmed in a special little tonsure on the crown of his head. Moreover Dean Spurný was a marvellous man in every way, still speaking in his original Silesian dialect, in fact to judge by our Dean the Lord God Himself spoke with him in this same dialect, for our Dean used to converse with God, at least so he thundered from the pulpit, He would say on a Sunday, “O Spurný, Spurný, ye hairless old bull, I commit these innocent sheep intae yer care and ye bring ’em tae heaven like pigs sozzled wi’ liquor . . .” Now a Dean, I said to myself, that speaks like that, surely he’ll give me a blessing when I kneel before him in my acolyte’s cassock, spread the palms of my hands out before me like so, bow down my head and tell him about such an innocent little sailing boat. But the Dean was in a rush, he chucked off his mackintosh, sipped at his vermouth, the Dean drank nothing else but vermouth, when we went to administer the rites, I had to take a little basket and in it along with the holy oil and the paten a bottle of vermouth . . . And so the Dean went off, and I removed my cassock, and there I was kneeling before the tabernacle and gazing at the golden figure of Christ poking out of the blooms of peony and guelder rose, and there I saw all of a sudden, that He too had a heart tattooed on His chest, a heart encompassed by a garden thicket of prickly briar roses . . . And so, as I emptied the collection boxes with their offerings for the upkeep of the church, first I took out a five-crown bit, and then I put it right back again, but finally I borrowed it once and for all, totally and unshakably convinced that I was going to return it, as I said myself to the golden Christ in the sacristy, Upon my soul and word of honour, I’m only borrowing it . . . and I showed it to Jesus, so He should know that that was all I was taking. Many’s the time I’ve spoken like that to Christ, because with God the Father I didn’t dare, especially since the day one small farmer called Mr Farda, of whom it was said he quarrelled with God for nights on end and shouted up at Him and God back down at him, when this farmer one day, bringing in his last cartload of hay, and me just out of school and a thunderstorm brewing, when Mr Farda was urging the horses on with his w
hip, to get the dry hay in out of the rain and into the loft, as they got under the bridge it started to drizzle, and then the downpour truly began, a cloudburst, Mr Farda took great handfuls of wet hay and slung them up in the air, skyward, and hollered up to God on high, “ ’Ere, ’ave yourself a bellyful!” And God answered him in the lightning, which split the poplar on the towpath in twain, and the horses trembled and so did I, and the onlooking regulars under the eaves of the Bridge Inn public house fell down on their knees, though not before God mind you, it was the scent of the lightning overpowered them, as that bolt of lightning zipped down the road and along the railing of the bridge like a fiery tomcat. Today the Bridge Inn was in a jovial mood. “Who’s the little sailor then?” exclaimed Mr Lojza, as I stood before him in my sailor’s jacket and white mariner’s cap with its double black band, crossed at the back with two bows. “Show me,” said Mr Lojza taking my cap and reading its lettering: HAMBURG-BREMEN, he placed it on his head, and I was happy, I laughed and rejoiced at how nice Mr Lojza was being. And Mr Lojza wore the cap and made such terrible faces, that I laughed then absolutely roared with laughter along with the whole table of regulars, and I made up my mind that when I grew up I’d consider it an honour indeed to sit together with such merry gents of the water. For Mr Lojza had teeth missing and so he made his lower lip overlap his upper until the lower lip covered it right up to the tip of his nose, and he walked about and his sand-workers’ table clapped their applause, and someone ordered everyone beer and a round of brandy on top of that. I said to myself, if it’s merry like this down by the river at the Bridge Inn, how merry it must be and how merry it will be too once I’m a sailor in Hamburg itself. And I said, “Mr Lojza, here’s the price of a nice big rum!” And Mr Lojza plonked the cap back playfully over my eyebrows, so that when I stared up with my eyes I was squinting at the brim of the cap itself, and I handed Mr Lojza my five-crown coin. “Where did you get all this lolly?” Mr Lojza said suspiciously. “I borrowed it from the Lord God,” I said and nodded, and the cap slipped over my eyes, I blew it back with a puff and the whole table laughed at me and Mr Lojza said, “You been speaking to Him then?” And all of them went quiet. “No,” says I, “but His son lent it me, the Lord Jesus Christ himself,” I said and added, “but Mr Alois, He lent it me just so as you could do me a tattoo of a beautiful boat, just like the one you did for that man over there . . .” “Korecký,” said the sand-digger. “Yes,” said I, “for Mr Korecký.” “Well now, if the good Lord Jesus Christ Himself has commanded it, let’s get down to business. When shall we do it?” Says I, “Right now, straightaway!” “Blow me,” said Mr Lojza, “but I haven’t got me tattooing needle and ink.” “Then go and fetch it,” I said, and Mr Alois dashed out just as he was in his shirt-sleeves, and the customers asked me about the Dean, if he still had the same two cookery maids or was it three now? And to keep the whole table in the mood for the tattooing I answered, “Whad’yamean three? Two, but they’re very young you know . . .” and the watermen’s table at the Bridge Inn roared with delight and repeated it after me like saying over the litany: “Both of ’em nice and young.” “Yes,” I said, “and when the Dean’s in a good mood, one of the cookery maids sits herself on a chair, while he bends down, takes the leg of the chair and herrup! he lifts the beautiful cookery maid up to the ceiling and her skirt flaps round her cheeks . . .” “O-ho!” cried everyone at the Bridge Inn, “And her skirt flaps round her cheeks . . .” “Yes, and one after the other he lifts them up, and us assistants at mass too, because he’s terribly strong, you know, he was one of seven children, and their dad was such a giant, that when they wanted to crack nuts, the Dean’s dad put his hand on the table, and the children lifted one of his fingers and under it they put a nut and they let the finger go and crack! It was shattered to smithereens!” And the customers cried, “O-ho! Crack! And it was shattered to smithereens!” “Yes, sirs, but they were so poor, that when they all sat down to table, and their mum put the dish of potatoes down in front of those seven lanky kids, all of them with their spoons at the ready, and their mum put her hand on top of the table with her fingers stretched out and rapped her nails on the table, then all the spoons hurled themselves at the food, and whoever wasn’t quick enough, that was the end of his dinner, but the Dean was the weakest of the family, and so they said, ‘What’s to be done with him? As a miller he’d never manage four sacks, he’d only lift two of those eighty-kilogram flour sacks, so we’ll have to make him a priest . . .’ ” And Mr Lojza came in, bringing a small case, like the one Mr Slavíček the barber carries or Mr Salvet the vet and pig gelder, and Mr Lojza closed the door of the taproom and motioned me over and I pulled the mariner’s jacket over my head, and when I came out into the light again, Mr Lojza said, “Now then sonny me lad, I don’t know what kind of boat it is you want, a sailing ship? A barque? Or a yawl? A three-master, or a brig, or do you fancy maybe a steamboat?” Says I, “Can you do any ship of any type?” Mr Lojza nodded and suddenly he was no longer drunk, he was solemn and ceremonious, and he motioned, and the sand-worker sitting on the corner of the bench, not the one I’d spoken to but the one who rode in a hat and carted the sand, he took off his hat now in order to strip off his shirt, the top half of his skull shone out so effulgently into the room and light shone from off his brow as from a milky half-spotlight. And when he came over into the light streaking down from above over his tanned torso, there wasn’t a single spot without its mermaids and anchors and hearts and initials and ships, and scenes of two naked people, and naked women, I flushed red and the sand-worker turned and on his back I chose myself a really simple one, a kind of fishing boat like little children draw, saying, “Do me one of those!” And Mr Lojza took me and the customers removed their beermats and held their beer-glasses and Mr Lojza laid me out on spread sheets of newspaper. “Will it hurt?” I inquired and lay down on my back, quite dazzled by the light bulb. “It won’t, it’ll only prick you a little teeny bit . . . a little boat you say? . . .” “A little boat,” I whispered almost blissfully falling into a doze, and then I felt the light pricking of the needle, then some dabbing with a cool rag or cotton wool, and the customers were around me and I lay in the centre like a ball running on the roulette wheel amidst the players . . . and I heard voices saying, “Aye, that’ll make a lovely keel . . . and now for a pair of sails . . . a proper ship’s got to have right proper flanks . . . a deep furrow there and a nice rudder on her too . . .” And Mr Lojza whispered to me, “Don’t breathe in and out too much, just gently through the nose . . .” And so I lay there on my back, the regular pricking of the tattooing needle roused me, but in the intervals between I blissfully drowsed . . . Then Mr Lojza whispered to me that the little boat was ready, I got up, sat on the table, all round me I saw the rows of beer-glasses, and the customers drank to me, I drooped my chin down on to my chest to get a view of my little boat, but all the glasses clinked against my head, and they all laughed together, and Mr Lojza pulled my little shirt and jacket back over my head, and I remembered that I lived at the other end of town, it was a long way to get home, so I gave a bow to Mr Lojza, and he offered me his hand, and the assembled company at table drank to me and sang, “Hoorah, hoorah, hoorah . . .” and I stood there and saluted with my sailor’s cap and ran out into the evening air.