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The old people’s home is in a lovely château. When you pass the little town where time stood still and go down the avenue of lime trees, the château still remains out of sight, you keep going up the hill, in the flat countryside even quite a little rise gives the impression of a hill down which you could sledge nicely in winter. Then there is a lodge by the road, hidden in the flowering tops of lime trees buzzing loud with bees, and suddenly from the gate you see the beige-walled monastery. A long time ago the Dominicans were here and their hobby and occupation here apart from scholarship was to cultivate a botanic garden. But when under Joseph II the days of the monastery were numbered, the Dominicans were disbanded and the monastery abandoned, the botanic garden went to seed. The first plants and flowers to perish were those unable to survive without human attention, only those flowers and bushes remained which managed to adapt. Only a small number of the original plants were left, and these not only maintained themselves in the abandoned garden, but as the wind blew, it carried their fruits and seeds over the boundary into the countryside around, so that now, two hundred years after the abandonment of that garden, there are still strange flowers and bushes growing in the area, the descendants of those plants whose seeds climbed over the fence and adapted themselves to the habitat. Altogether it was a kind of tradition in our area to adapt yourself and merge with new and different times. Under Maria Theresa the country round about was populated with German peasants, whole villages and farmsteads, but as time went by, not only did these Germans adapt, but finally they merged with the land and the language, just like those plants from the botanic garden, and so now there is not a trace of the original Germans in this area, only the German names, whose bearers speak and feel themselves to be Czech. Dad entered the courtyard and then the garden, down from the galleries of the former monastery and château there ran thick eiderdowns of red geraniums, like you can see on pictures of farmhouses and hotels in the Tyrol or Switzerland, and out there in the sunshine, on benches, old men and women were sitting, all looking sort of solemn and special, because it was visiting time and every old person here was under the illusion that his daughter or son might turn up, or at least some friend or other, maybe he hadn’t come, maybe he never came, but always he might come, because every old person has at least some friends or relations. Dad stood and looked at these old people, comparing them with himself, and observing that they weren’t much older than himself, some were even a bit younger, but Dad was a youngster to these people here, because he came from outside, and whoever is outside, is young, and can look after himself, and for these people, for whom time had stood still, to look after yourself and not to be a burden to others meant everything. Dad stood there holding a large bag inscribed with the name of the firm Alois Šisler, he listened to every sound, and because in the softest hints of sounds and notes and happenings he was accustomed to hear approaching disaster, as life had taught him to do, he noted distant music, wafting out not from a single centre but from several places at once. And so he looked round, wondering where it might come from, and saw open windows and blowing curtains, but that orchestra was playing gentle string music, which grew louder as he walked up to the main gate, and then Dad heard and saw how along all the galleries and corridors, even on the trees, like little feeding boxes for the birds, tiny little amplifiers were hung on cables, radio receivers protected from the rain by polythene sheets, so that the music would play all the time, even when rain was falling or snow, and all the time the music played “Harlequin’s Millions”, a sweet sentimental programmatic intermezzo, which enhanced the solemn chocolate-box mood of the expectant old-age pensioners, and they, leaning on their sticks or with arms folded in their laps or over their chests, their hats pressed down against the sunlight, gazed sharply at the main gate to see if anyone they might be expecting would arrive. Even if someone were to come, no great joy or excitement would be displayed, the main thing was that it was the time of waiting and expectation, and like that state of mind of children awaiting the bell to tell them that Jesus had come to the Christmas tree, that state of nervous tension when children go to look on the window ledge to see if Santa Claus or St Barbara has put their presents on the plate or in their stocking, that expectant state of grace was enough to make pleasant this day on which visits were permitted. And a few of the inmates recognised Dad and got up, these were people who spent all Saturday and the following night and Sunday morning helping Dad to repair his Orion motorbike all those years ago, these were the people who never came to help again, who were terrified of meeting Dad, who fled from the threat of more repair work and hid themselves from Dad as he approached in cellars . . . Today these people got up and came to meet Dad, stretching out their hands, hoping and trusting that Dad would suggest they came and did some more of this maintenance work, anything at all, but Dad’s hand gestured that the days of motor-car maintenance were over, finished, it was all over, finished . . . So Dad listened five times to the music of “Harlequin’s Millions” and stepped into the cool air of the whitewashed Baroque passage, up the wide staircase he climbed as more “Harlequin’s Millions” wafted down to meet him. On the first floor there was a corridor full of flowers, all the flower stands were overflowing with cascades of geraniums, petunias, and snapdragons and asparagus fern, just like the music from boxes on wall brackets floating down from the string orchestra, unfurling its strands and filaments and motley calligraphic initials billowing and swirling in the current of the musical threads. And Dad peeped through the half-open doors into the knights’ hall, and again, there on every table in the common refectory a flowerpot shone bright or a vase with rearing stems of colourful blooms, and again, as knights jousted their way across the tapestry along the whole length of the wall, from the same little boxes the music poured out once more, inexhaustibly, amongst the poor pensioners, playing “Harlequin’s Millions”. And then he was touched by a woman’s pink hand, and when Dad turned round, in front of him there stood a corpulent nun with a kindly face in spectacles, the spectacle rims were jammed down on to her nose and cheeks, just like the white starched collar which cut into the nun’s fat pink neck and gave her a permanent ring mark like doves have. Dad said he was looking for his brother, Uncle Pepin. And the nun took Dad over to a window, to an alcove with such thick walls, that there was room for a small table and four chairs, and the nun looked out of the window and said to Dad with a joyful countenance that very soon Uncle Pepin would be passing on ahead of the rest, he wouldn’t remain more than a fortnight on this earth, Uncle kept falling down, so she’d had them put Uncle Pepin in the ward for the immobile. And, she added, without dropping the joyful look in her eyes, did Uncle have any relatives, and if so, they should come to take their leave, in such imminent circumstances access and visits were permitted on any day and at any hour, for Uncle’s time had come. And the sister spoke with such bliss and joy that Dad suddenly thought that if ever he was a burden to people, that he’d like to be with someone like this sister for his remaining days. And so Dad went in with his bag in his fingers, he was holding that bag rather like most visitors to the home used to hold the edge of their hats, feverishly, as if the hat brim were a lifebelt. In the ward for the immobile there was deep shade, outside the large windows the sun shone all the more brightly through the tall trees, as if the trees were illuminated from below by strong floodlights, so brightly were the windows packed with foliage, fluttering and issuing a steady rustling rushing noise that penetrated glass and walls, as if apart from the trees there had to be a waterfall or soaring fountain. When he got used to the half-gloom and dazzle of the windows, Dad saw that the sister was standing at the head of a bed. There lay a slight little man — so small, almost a child, his arms thrown back and bent behind his head, and he was staring fixedly at the ceiling, his eyes no longer expected anyone, looked forward to anything, they were eyes in which time had almost stopped. It was Uncle Pepin. The sister leant over, lifted Uncle like a child, with her arms round his back, so light h
e was, like a girl picking up her doll from a child’s pram. “Look dear,” said the sister, “look who’s come to see you.” Then she uncovered Uncle’s legs, and his legs were white, as though they had been lying in lime water. Dad noticed, with a modicum of horror and disgust, like all healthy folk, that Uncle Pepin had nappies and pads under him like little children. And the sister unfastened those nappies and pads and said cheerfully, “Let’s see if he’s wet himself.” Then she added, “Would you like to go on the gramophone, dear?” And Uncle Pepin said nothing, he went on staring at the ceiling and his eyes were blue like pallid blue lilacs, like a pair of frozen forget-me-nots. And the sister brought the gramophone over, a sort of stool it was, she took off the lid and sat Uncle on this commode with a chamber pot underneath, and Uncle fell, keeled over like a statue, Dad supported his brother and looked at his legs, his blue, leached feet, Uncle was naked, with a towel thrown across his front, he sat like Christ crowned with thorns. And all of a sudden Dad groaned, uttered a long moan, releasing everything that had tightened his coat till the buttons practically snapped, and then he opened the bag and took out of it into the semi-darkness of the immobile ward a white sea-captain’s cap, with an anchor and the inscription BREMEN-HAMBURG . . . And he put it in front of Uncle’s eyes, but though Uncle looked at that cap, he looked right through it and elsewhere, that sailor’s cap was transparent and Uncle gazed on into the very heart of time as it was stopping. “Old Šisler sewed it for you,” Dad whispered and put it on Uncle’s head, and he added, “He made it to measure . . .” But the cap fell right down over Uncle’s ears, he’d got so terribly thin that even his head had shrunk several sizes. The sister said sorrowfully, “He doesn’t eat his food.” And she straightened Uncle’s bed, and Dad looked round at the other beds in the room, they were all watching Dad as if he were the visit they would like to have themselves, which hadn’t come or wouldn’t come, or had already been and gone. An old man stood by the window piping away timorously: “Ah, the horror of it, I’m ninety-six years old and I can’t die, ah, it’s awful, it’s a misfortune, I’ve a good heart and lungs, what a destiny, eh?” He nodded his head at Dad’s watching eyes. And Dad understood that none of them knew anything about Uncle Pepin, nothing about the lovely ladies, about his dances and sprees, about how he entered the town in that cap like a sovereign ruler or king, how everywhere the windows opened for Uncle, while for him, for Dad, the windows closed and the gates were shut and people fled, because he stole their precious time, while Uncle Pepin filled and fulfilled it. And then Dad shivered, he was expecting that awful sound of diarrhoea, that noise that horrifies every living breathing person, which the sister would hear too, but the sister considered all this simply part of humanity, as a little childish trifle, for no diarrhoea could deprive her of that radiance provided by her faith, that for all of this, when her time came, she would look upon the very face of God, into the radiance in fact into which she looked even now, and she did not muffle this radiance in her eyes, but issued it forth to all people, Dad as well, so that they could savour the sparkling glow of God’s grace in the eyes of a believer. And Dad looked round at the other beds again, a paralysed man was lying there beside Uncle, instead of hands he had stumps twisted in on himself, like knuckles on the stems of an old vine, that man must have been constantly hungry, on his bedside table he had pieces of bread and bowls of tea, like a paralysed lapdog he bent his head over and grasped a piece of bread with his lips or lapped the tea with his tongue, and beside the window, on a bed propped up with planks, probably so that the immobile person could see better into the garden, there sat a young man with spectacles and in his fingers needles swiftly clacked and as he gazed out he was crocheting a big curtain, already as long as a blanket and running down almost to the ground, and on that curtain there were little crocheted birds and sprigs and foliage, and the immobile person looked as if he were reading music and playing the zither, he looked for a moment out at the rustling, fluttering foliage and then he crocheted what he saw into his threads. “There we are,” said the sister, taking Uncle Pepin and wiping him, Dad took the sailor’s cap, which had fallen off, turned away and waited till he could tell by the sound of the paper that the cleansing was over, he couldn’t get a hold on himself and watch, and now he realised what a benefit it was for an old person to be able to do things for himself, not to be dependent on people. Now Uncle Pepin was back lying on the bed and staring at the ceiling. Dad sat down on the edge of the bed, and the sister stood there silhouetted in the window and watched the young man crocheting his curtain. Then all at once Uncle Pepin felt for Dad’s hand and stroked the back of it, feeling the hard patches, Dad’s hands all mucked up by the repair tools and spanners, then he looked at Dad and Dad sobbed, almost choked to see that Uncle was looking back at him out of that time which had stood still, there out of an inhuman realm. And then Uncle lay down on his back, threw one arm behind his head and crooked the other over his brow, and again with unblinking eyes he stared into the cold space which was approaching closer towards him. “Jožka, what are you thinking about?” inquired Dad. The sister came over and listened, she watched Uncle Pepin’s purple lips. “What’s tae become o’ the love?” whispered Uncle. “What’s that?” inquired Dad putting his ear up close to him. “What’s tae become o’ the love?” repeated Uncle, and the sister touched Dad’s sleeve and nodded sweetly and Dad understood and got up, took the cap, put it on, but the sister took it off him and put it in his hand, and softly went away, and Dad followed, before the tall doors of the mansion closed Dad saw that the young man was looking at him sharply through the lenses of his spectacles, and the spectacles glittered just like the three crochet needles. In the corridor the radio on the walls again poured out “Harlequin’s Millions”, through the open doors into the knights’ hall gushed the smell of soup and gravy, and the pensioners hobbled or walked into the refectory, where so many years ago the time of the Dominican and the aristocratic order had stood still, to be succeeded by the time of the old people who lived out their lives there amongst the flowers and the distant music. When Dad left the park, not a single bench was occupied, nobody was sitting there in the sun any more, no more visitors would be coming, it was time for food and lunch again, then time for a nap. Dad put on the sailor’s cap, adjusted it carefully once more, and when he looked at the world around him under the shadow of the black peak, he felt a beautiful feeling, he even pulled himself up straight, straightened his back to its full extent till he was walking stiff as a soldier, dignified, when he went through the gate, where a mentally handicapped old man was on duty, Dad gave him a salute, and the old man clicked his heels and opened the whole of the main gate and bowed to Dad, and Dad give him a five-crown piece. “Have yourself a beer,” said Dad, and he went down the avenue, crossing the alternate patches of sunlight and lime trees’ shade. When he was passing the old cemetery, he stopped. As he could see, people had even got going on this old cemetery with picks, and block and tackle, and levers and jacks, even here it wasn’t enough for people that time had stood still. Nearly all the monuments had been torn out of the ground, nearly all the graves and tombs were open, memorials had been dragged on skids and boards with chains on to open drays like heavy barrels of beer, monuments with inscriptions which for more than two hundred years had given addresses, status and age and favourite verses, all this hewn and carved into stone had now been carried off to another town, where grinding wheels and chisels had blotted out the names of people from the old time. Along with these they ripped up the old cypresses too, the thujas and arbores vitae and black elder bushes, and uprooted too from the earth were the remains of coffins and bones. And Dad just looked and saw that this work of abolishing the cemetery was done, not by people of the new time, they maybe only gave the instructions, but by people he had known ever since he had first moved into this little town where time had stood still. And for a while longer Dad almost delighted at how the graves had resisted, how they had had to bring caterpillar tractors, how the
chains had burst, but in the end they had succeeded, they had to succeed, in tearing those old times out of the ground, and so Dad walked on and looked at the gravestones and saw the inscriptions, he read them and learnt that his time had truly died too, not with Uncle Pepin, but with this cemetery, and he felt contentment at what he had seen. And so, torn out of the ground were the tombs and gravestones of František Hulík, the fisherman known as Old Hobbler, Červinka known as Wee Brolly, Červinka The Perch, Červinka The Limp, Červinka Drampa, curly-headed Červinka Woolly, Červinka Práda, Červinka Skinny Whippet, fancy Červinka Bankrupt, Červinka Ciggy, Červinka Mincemeat, Červinka Made-Him-Sweat, and on the dray was the gravestone of Dlabač The Ducats, Dlabač The Pigman, Dlabač The Louser, Dlabač The Toff, Dlabač Big-Arse, and on another cart there’s Votava The Dummy, Votava The Musician, Votava Vanity, and next to him Vohánka Lederer and Vohánka Laudon. And in a lorry which had stopped at the cemetery gates and couldn’t get out through the mud there lay the stones of Zedrich The Corner and Zedrich Bubikopf, Procházka Robinson, and next to it the gravestone of Miss Tubitz known as Pull-Me-Pigtail, and other gravestones of people in this little town where time had stood still who also possessed a familiar name, an added nickname. And a good thing too, said Dad to himself, everything returns to its origin, now I can see that time really has stood still and the new time has really begun, but I have only the key to the old times and the one for the new is denied me, and I cannot live in the new time anyway, because I belong to the old time, which is dead. And so meditating, Dad came on to the bridge, and when he saw the beige-walled brewery there at the end of the suburbs, he leant over above the river and looked at the water flowing by. And he took off the sailor’s cap, the famous cap of Uncle Pepin, and it was as if that sailor’s cap symbolised the golden olden days, not only those of Uncle Pepin, but of Dad as well. Dad held the cap up to the wind and then he threw it into the air, into the sun, and the cap glided and fell into the water and the current carried it away, right up to the very last moment Dad watched the cap as it was carried away by the flow of the Elbe, and the sailor’s cap floated and Dad felt, not that it would never sink, but it couldn’t, and even if it did, then that cap would go on shining radiant in his mind like a bright memory. And when Dad got home, Mum said, “We’ve just been told that Uncle Pepin has died.” And Dad laughed cheerfully and confirmed it to her: “Yes,” he said, “I know.”