6
Later, when Uncle Pepin had lost five kilos in weight, and when he’d stopped taking a bath, and so one week he would wash one hand, the next week one leg, the third week the other hand, and the fourth week the remaining leg, and the week after his neck, and the following week his chest, and so on, when he’d begun to get all messed up physically, his rebelliousness and revolutionary spirit evaporated. He returned to us all contrite, bearing his sailor’s cap in a translucent paper bag as a demonstration of humble subjection, and he sat himself down in the kitchen, just as he had done three months ago. And Mum gave him horseradish sauce and a dumpling, and Uncle ravenously devoured it, exclaiming vociferously in the intervals, “This food is just fit for an archbishop!” And then when Mum heated ’up the dumplings and sauerkraut from yesterday’s lunch, Uncle Pepin’s enthusiasm and praise knew no bounds, before tucking into the whole pan of food he shouted, “Now this was the favourite dish o’ the late lamented Emperor Franz himself!” And then he kissed Mother’s hand, leaving an imprint of horseradish sauce on the back of her little hand, and a bit of sauerkraut, and he said Mum was built on the selfsame lines as Baroness Schrat, the Emperor’s mistress, otherwise an actress and at the time the greatest beauty not only in Vienna itself, but in all Austria, not excluding Transylvania, which used to have the loveliest whores in the whole of Cisleithania. And then he requested Dad to look after his accounts again and give him a daily allowance for spending money, and for his cigarettes and laundry and organisation. And Dad, seeing his brother so meek and humble, felt tears come to his eyes and said, “D’you know what, Pepin? I’ll teach you how to maintain a Škoda 430!” Uncle Pepin said, “So long as I’ve got the criminal talent needed, it’s the same sort o’ business as a safe-breaker cracking open a safe.” But Dad said, “Where there’s a will, there’s a way,” adding, “And where is it written you have to spend the rest of your days as a maltster and assistant labourer? I mean, you could become a driver for us, we’ve sold the horses and acquired two delivery lorries!” And it was true, as he said this, even Mum looked dreamy, Bubik, the enormous gelding, when they trimmed him bare and led him off to the slaughterhouse early one evening, he untethered himself at the slaughterhouse, opened the gate, and came stepping along through the whole town, and across the bridge, he knew all the roads off by heart over the whole district, and sometime after midnight he neighed at the gate, and Vanřátko, the night-watchman, was fast asleep, but Dad recognised Bubik’s neighing, so he got up, unfastened the gate, and the stable door, and Bubik neighed and went straight to his place, in the morning he neighed at the workmen, to say he’d come back to them, to his friends, but the drayman wasn’t there, the drayman had three days off, because when you’ve been riding eighteen years with the same horses, and these horses are sent to the slaughterhouse, Dad had resolved, it’s like a death in the family, and the three days were for that, for weeping and drinking to drown your sorrow at losing your horses, just as if your mother or brother had died, in short a close member of the family . . . And so Bubik was led off again to the slaughterhouse, this time he went humbly, without neighing, the way he looked you could tell he knew there was nothing to be done, that it was likely the end of him, because at the slaughterhouse his sense of smell had told him that this was a place where your life was in jeopardy. And so Dad stepped out along with Uncle Pepin, Dad even took his brother by the shoulder, as they went off that Saturday in a mood of warm intimacy, and Dad enthusiastically explained to Uncle Pepin how the Orion motor-bike always had to be taken apart and put together again because it had a certain technical fault, but this Škoda 430 worked to such perfection that Dad took it apart simply to find out why the machine performed so flawlessly, why it started and drove so perfectly, for that perfection kept Dad awake in his bed at night. “You just have to understand these things,” roared Uncle Pepin. And Dad nodded contentedly: “Aye, and not only do I understand, but I long, like a philosopher, to discover the reason for the perfection of its mechanical order, for, Pepin, remember that the engine of the likes of a Škoda 430 is just as perfect as nature, and the Universe.” And Dad laid coats and sacks on the ground, laid Pepin down on top of them, and backed the car on to Pepin, then he climbed under it himself, inching himself under the chassis, and hauling the wrenches and spanners after him. When he had settled down beside Pepin, Dad said, “Now, these cables lead to the brakes, and we’re going to have a look to see why those brakes are so good at doing their job . . .” And Dad set to work and handed Uncle a spanner and asked him to tap off the dried-on mud gently. And Pepin shouted, “We human beings can know just too much, ye ken, and look what can happen! There was this chappie Johnny Sachr in the army on military service, he asked the sarge what exactly an artillery gun was. So the sarge spent a whole Saturday morning and afternoon making it all clear to him, and finally Johnny asked, ‘And how do you release the carriage?’ And the sarge said Johnny was a fine example to all the lads and taught him how to release the carriage. And one Sunday afternoon Johnny took the gun, as it stood there in the Jičín barracks, released it, and the gun crashed through the sentry bar, ran through the gate and went careering down the hill to Jičín along the avenue. Folks only just managed to jump behind the trees as it went, and in the end the gun bounced off into the municipal recreation garden. Aye, people can know just too much,” Uncle appended, and as the mud was stuck fast, he struck the dried-up undercarriage of the Škoda 430 three times with his spanner, and Dad wasn’t expecting it, and the mud spattered in his eyes, and Dad cried out, “Pepin, you hairy swine, what’re you doing?” And he lay there on his back, blinking and wiping his eyelashes with his dirty hands, then he had to turn on to his tummy, to let all the muck get washed out with his tears. And then they found that the brakes were in order, and Dad was amazed that he couldn’t find anything special to see, because the brakes on the Orion used to fail, and when he took them apart and put them together again, just as carefully as the brakes on this Škoda, they went wrong just the same as they did before. “Don’t you find this car maintenance business a lot more fun than going off after your bar girls?” Dad remarked, raising the bonnet and showing Uncle where the spark-plugs were, and the big end, and the air cleaner, and then he removed the various parts, and the big end, clasping his hands and explaining it all devotedly to Uncle and pointing out which were the cylinders, and the pistons, and where the crankpin on the crankshaft was. And Uncle exclaimed loudly, “Brother, you’re right there, take that Vlasta girl over at Havrda’s for instance, now you tell me, brother, the lads were playing cards, a game of ‘God Bless’, and Vlasta says: ‘Come on you old goat, pay me a bit of attention!’ But auld Švec had me looking after thousands o’ crowns, there I was sitting next tae him like some Rothschild, who else would’ve had the honour, right? And Vlasta took off her blouse and stuck her arm round my back and says, ‘Tell me about the European Renaissance, d’you hear?’ And there I was, holding those thousands and no paying attention, and all of a sudden the lassie undoes the fastening on her bra, and out pops her bosoms, like two half-kegs of beer, and one o’ they breasts thumps me on the head and the other just floored me, and auld Švec fell doon as well, swept the cloth off, and all the players were swept away by that Vlasta lassie’s pair of bosoms, and there she stood over us, it was like a holy picture, Jesus arising from the dead, there we were felled and lying on the ground like the sodgers in the picture . . . And Vlasta stood there putting her boobs back in her brassière, and auld Švec says, ‘Time for the kits to go back in their basket . . .’ and he orders two Martells and tells me, ‘Now you’ve to sit next to me, you Catholic son of a gun, you bring me luck, you do.’ ” And Dad said: “Hold this lock-nut for me, so that’s your fine fun, is it?” “Aye,” said Uncle beaming back at him, “right enough it is!” “Well,” said Dad in disapproval, “but today for the very first time we’re going to take out the sump as well, all right?” “Oh aye,” said Uncle, “so you agree it’s gey good fun over at Havrda??
?s! Now if only you could meet Vlasta! Before she went to work as a barmaid, she was a theatrical hairdresser, and she was famous in that theatre, Francin, as well, she worked as a wig-maker, and one day, she told me, they forgot the wee box with the make-up and whiskers, and as they were on tour and playing some Spanish comedy or other — Sid or Kid it was called — do you know how Vlasta got hold of the beards and moustaches?” But Dad just said simply, “Now we come to one of the most magnificent parts of the operation, we get down under the car again and loosen the sump!” And then he inched himself under the Škoda again on his tummy, while Uncle continued, “Well, dear wee Vlasta, she just tucks up her skirt and then she takes her scissors, and snip, snip, she snips off her pubes, trims it all off, and as there wasnae enough for the moustaches, she half-trimmed off the pubes of the hairdresser’s assistant as well . . . they stuck ’em on wi’ strips o’ elastoplast or sticking-plaster, and there was ten chevaliers strutting about the theatre twisting their moustaches, and Vlasta got a certificate of commendation from the director after . . .” “Ugh,” expostulated Dad, “they could have got the pox or the crabs or something, but for goodness’ sake, concentrate for a moment, these screws I’m about to hand you, put them on the board, and this last one too, and I’ll support the sump on my chest while you climb out and bring over the old gherkin tin and I’ll pour the oil out into it.” “I know,” said Uncle Pepin, “that’s the oil from the gearbox, right?” “Gearbox my auntie, that goes with the differential, we’ll take a look at that next Saturday, or tomorrow morning if you like, the gearbox and differential are towards the back, this is the sump, from the engine there, as I’ve just been telling you, the oil drops down and the pump pumps it round and up again, do you see?” “Now I see,” said Uncle, even though he’d seen nothing, “so the oil goes back up to the distributor, right?” “Up your arse it does!” shouted Dad, “Up your arse and not the distributor, up your stupid arse!” he yelled, as oil started slopping down over his chest. “Now for the love of God concentrate, will you, and I’ll just lower the sump down on to my chest.” And Uncle called out delightedly, “Right you are then, Caruso used to have books piled on his chest to give him a better voice, and he could sing like a right-hand ox, pure joy to hear, a throat like a fine Swiss heifer, but d’you know what Vlasta said, that as a barmaid she has to pay tax on her artistic earnings? And maybe literary too? As an author or painter?” But Dad was engrossed body and soul in the engine and only wheezed back in excitement, “Hold up the sump, one more screw, hold it up with both hands like this . . .” “I know,” said Uncle, “to stop the carburettor falling out.” “For Jesus Christ’s sake, don’t torment me, the carburettor’s way up on top . . .” “I know,” said Uncle confidingly, “that’s the cam that drives the petrol into the distributor.” “What d’you mean, the distributor?” Dad mewled. “Well, so as to get sparks into the cauldron, one of the folks in the City Bar told me, Jarunka, he’s the one that works as a station assistant, looks terrific in uniform, just like General Gajda, d’you know what happened to him? Once, when he fell asleep on the job, the lassie on the telegraph took out his privates, and the dispatcher coloured ’em with the ink for the stamps, and when Jarunka got home that morning, he wanted his missus’ strongest and highest proof of love and affection while still in his uniform, and his lady said yes, but when Mr Jarunka took out his privates to carry out, in the words of Mr Batista’s handbook, this marital cohabitation, alias coition, his missus was horrified by his purple-painted privates and she flew off to ask the stationmaster what sort of swinish behaviour alias misdemeanours were going on there during working hours, and as she burst into the stationmaster’s office, she caught the stationmaster bald-headed, with his toupee sitting on the table on a false head, he was just combing it ready for duty, and so the missus just had to take some soap and scrub Mr Jarunka’s genitalia on the washboard, but it wouldn’t come off, so she took some acid liquid she kept for cleaning the WC, but Mr Jarunka started bellowing and rushed off with his genitalia through the workers’ estate all the way to the railway station and back, and people were shocked, partly because he was in uniform, partly because of his purple private parts, and partly because he was bellowing so loud . . .” And Dad removed the last screw, and the sump settled down on his chest, and Dad roared out, “Stop roaring in my ear like that, or I’ll start roaring too, go and fetch some staves and prop up this sump for me, it’s blessed heavy.” Uncle Pepin lay on his tummy and proffered advice: “Try singing, brother, like Jára Pospíšil, a tenor has to be trained to be a tenor, has to be trained by a trainer . . .” he rambled on and then he climbed out, but then, while still kneeling there, he thought again and bent down his head and enquired, “Oughtn’t I to go and pay my organisation?” But Dad roared, “You’re not going anywhere, bring me those props, it’s dripping in my eyes!” “What where?” inquired Uncle. “In my eyes, oil!” And Uncle expressed wonder: “Your eyes, oil? But to finish my story, that Jarunka chappie, that worked the barrier poles on the level-crossing, he also sent a report to the Academy once, backed up by his own observations and those of the engine-drivers and stationmasters, saying that sparrows were taking free rides in groups and alighting on empty waggons and going on train trips to Southern Bohemia, or the spa town of Bohdaneč, once they even set off on an outing from Kostomlaty to Vienna, with no permits, just to see what Vienna looked like from the top of Steffi, alias St Stephen’s Cathedral, and back they came in empty waggons to Vršovice, switched to the milk train, and returned to Kostomlaty in the waggons, except that when in Prague while they were at it they nipped off to have a quick peep at the Castle . . . but they’re going to be closing soon, oughtn’t I to pop over and fetch my laundry?” And Dad couldn’t stand it any more, he poured off half of the oil from the sump and lifted it with his last ounce of strength and placed it down carefully beside him, it couldn’t be done straightforwardly, it was as if he was buried by a mine slip, he had to worm his way out, for the sump and Dad were squeezed together like two sandwiched slices of bread . . . And Dad clambered out into the light of day, greasy and soaked with oil, then he turned round and hauled the sump carefully out, straightened up and carried it off in his arms and tenderly, like putting a child to bed, he laid it down on an old honey extractor. “So this is the sump,” rejoiced Uncle Pepin, seeing that Dad was now fuming. “This is the sump,” said Francin, growing mollified, “and now come and see what beauty awaits us underneath the vehicle!” He knelt down and invited Pepin to creep in after him beneath the Škoda chassis. “Oughtn’t I to go and buy some bread and milk instead?” said Uncle with sudden trepidation. “You’re feeding with us again,” said Dad, crawling on his elbows into the puddles of oil with Pepin following after, then they turned on to their backs and lay in the oil, while Dad pointed his screwdriver and reeled off in a soft and ardent voice as if in prayer all the various parts of the car which hung there fastened to the shafts and joints above, here and there a fat drop of oil plopped in their faces, but Dad went on talking and teaching away, while Uncle Pepin longed with regret for the golden times only yesterday when he was eating the hens’ own groats and spuds, but by now he would’ve been off, stepping along in his sailor’s cap to visit his lovely ladies, and before he got there, on the way over, the windows would open and the garden gates of the town too, people would rush out, and Uncle would salute them like he was Hans Albers. At that moment a pair of white trouser-legs stopped in front of the Škoda 430, then a pair of shoes with divided uppers went up and down a couple of times, and after that a figure squatted down in a white spa suit. Mr Burýtek, the butcher, dressed up spa-fashion, his ruddy and full face redolent of “tea”, for Mr Burýtek called rum “tea”, he’d finished work, it was all the same at the slaughterhouse, every week when two waggonloads of Hungarian piglets came in, with his assistant he put the narrow gangway in place, then he and his helper positioned themselves each on one side with their knives, and as the piglets rushed out into the light of day, so they eac
h slit their throats with the knives, and then the piglets ran about hither and thither amidst blood and dying rattles until they fell, and when the last piglet sidled out, they stabbed its throat too, for, as Mr Burýtek said, this running about was the only way of bleeding them properly. Mr Burýtek wasn’t just any old butcher, he would go for a big pig, a four-hundredweight hog, single-handed with his knife, he’d struggle with it willy-nilly, make a fight of it, and when he got one on its back at a private slaughtering, he plunged his knife into its throat and held it there and held down that pig’s last mortal tremor. This butcher could master anything, except his own wife, though she stayed at home in the shop, she was partial to the bottle, sometimes when she got drunk, she stripped naked and didn’t know what she was doing, and the neighbours poured water over her, and when that didn’t do any good, slops or liquid manure. And now Mr Burýtek, squatting down, begged Dad, “Manager Sir, it’s getting to be a crying outrage, please please could you drop in at our house during the evening and persuade that wife of mine to quit the bottle, do you understand?” said Mr Burýtek sadly. “I’m going off to Hošt’ka Spa to recuperate, I’ll take a walk in the colonnade, I won’t be at home in the evening, for pity’s sake, have a word with her . . .” He lit himself a cigar and rose slowly and ponderously, for his legs were sore, as with every butcher at his time of life. And he looked about him, Dad’s head was just showing from under the Škoda chassis, like a tortoise’s poking out of its shell, next to him Uncle Pepin emerged too, and Mr Burýtek looked about him, and before Dad could prevent him, Mr Burýtek sat himself down in that sump full of oil, comfortably and contentedly he hooked his white trouser-leg over his knee, lit his cigar and looked at Dad, saying insistently, “We’re friends after all, twice I’ve spent two whole days working with you on your Orion, it was you that made my wife take to the drink, because she thought I was off somewhere playing cards with somebody for two days in a row, off spending two days with other women, while all the time we were here working on the bike . . . It’s just a little bit your fault that she took to the bottle, and if you had a word with her, she’ll listen to an intellectual type like you, she’d even be willing to come and work with you on this car of yours . . .” And Dad, when he saw the butcher’s quizzical face, when he saw the oil soaking into the trousers and the butcher still sitting there in his comfy posture in the sump as if in an armchair, the sump even fitted him neatly as though made to measure, Dad said, “Don’t fret yourself, my good man, I promise you, I’ll drop in at your place, I’ll make an attempt . . .” And he wormed back under the car, and Uncle crawled in after him, they thought it better to lie there in the huge puddles of oil beneath the car, watching from the half-darkness, as if from under a roof or a hat pulled down over your eyes, as Mr Burýtek reached round to touch his backside, then put his black palm up to his eyes, then slowly got to his feet, took hold of the cloth on his bottom, prised off the clinging trousers, then stood on one foot and shook the other about, then turned round, leaned over and placed both hands in the sump and watched the oil close gently over his wedding ring. Uncle Pepin went on: “Once I was travelling wi’ a real beauty from Bruck and I was busy staring at her, and she, all embarrassed, was reading away at her novel and flushing red with it, opposite us a colonel was sitting, reading Prager Tagblatt, and I watched, and down from the rack came slowly dripping a thin plaited strand, a streamlet, a slender golden snake, and this slender snake curled itself on to the colonel’s epaulettes, but the colonel smiled, probably he was on the humour section, and that slender snake coiled and trickled on further and ever more thickly, and I looked, and it was honey, running out of the tipped-over bag of the young lady, who, when she saw it, just wrapped herself up tighter in her coat and pretended she was asleep . . . And all at once the colonel scratched himself on the shoulder and his fingers stuck, then he jumped up, and at that moment the guard came in, and it ended up with two other passengers sticky with honey too, and I still had honey in my hair when I got home, I was going home on furlough . . .” Mr Burýtek whipped round and shook his fist at the Škoda 430 and cried out, “Armageddon! Armageddon!”