Читать книгу The Wooden King - Thomas Maxwell McConnell - Страница 19

“Good day,” the clerk said behind the counter. “May I help you?”

“Good day,” Trn said, taking a basket. “I’m looking for toothpaste.”

She indicated the far wall and as he passed the aisles he glimpsed a woman pulling her lip, pensive glasses overlooking the shelves. After he laid the toothpaste in the basket, he turned towards the packets of tissues to study her across the shelves, the lenses of her glasses so clean the bottles she examined shone in them. Her dark hair came out of her hat to whisper against her shoulders and as she bent to look more closely thin fingertips rose to catch the locket that swung on a silver chain. The shop smelled of new soap. She raised a bottle of lotion and the locket came to rest on her sweater, two fingers there to still it, one finger, the longest. She was slender and tall, taller than the man who stood beside her now glowering at Trn under thick brows.

“What are you looking at?”

“Nothing.” Trn shook his head. “Only shopping.” He showed his basket.

“You have no right.” The man’s black hair was oiled to his scalp, his jaw stubbled black. “You’re a Jew, aren’t you? You’re not even allowed in the shops this time of day.”

“I am allowed. I am shopping, like everyone else.”

“He only shuffles like a Jew,” the man said. “And ogles other men’s wives.”

The man would follow him to the counter, press against his shoulder. “You’ve no right to look at other men’s wives.” Trn handed his money to the clerk who watched him. The drawer shot open as the till sounded its bell and the eyes of the clerk shifted to the man behind him, Trn’s hand ready to slide his change from the counter.

“Go home to your own wife and leave other men’s alone.”

“I’m leaving now.”

But the man stood in the aisle and she was there too, eyes wincing behind her glasses.

“Mirek,” she said.

“You don’t understand,” the man said. “I haven’t heard you apologize.”

“If I have somehow offended you, sir, I apologize.”

He stepped to the right but the man blocked him again.

“To my wife, you filth. Apologize to my wife.”

Trn looked over the man’s shoulder through the lenses into the long-lashed eyes.

“I apologize, madam, for any offense.”

“Mirek, he’s said he’s sorry.”

“He’s still looking at you,” the man said. “Did you see? What are you, with that case on your shoulder? Some desk man?”

“I’m leaving,” Trn said, stepping left. The man pivoted again and Trn dodged between him and the shelves, bringing to the floor a cascade of packages. The bell at the door tinged as another customer came through and Trn skirted her out onto the sidewalk but the man’s hand caught his shoulder and reversed him, pushed him toward the blocks of the wall.

“Who do you think you are looking at my wife that way?”

Passing faces took them in and palely faced away. A man in a sandwich board came by, a new restaurant with a German name, over the board his blank stare gaping past. Trn looked down at the paving stones they stood on, the cracked one the man stood on.

“I think I should teach you a lesson,” the man said. “How would you like that?” His cheeks shook when he spoke, his jowls, a froth of anger at the corners of his mouth.

“Mirko,” the woman said. She shifted her bag, laid a hand on the man’s shoulder. “People are looking.”

“I’m going to provide you a lesson about looking,” the man said. The hair at his temples grew to points that almost touched his eyebrows. He pressed Trn to the wall with a plump hand. “He can’t look at another man’s wife without something to remember.”

“What if the police come?”

“He doesn’t know what to do,” the man said, “so I’m going to show him.”

He stood so close the breath of his words came up Trn’s nose, the sick lunch decaying in his belly, in his teeth.

“Maybe I should follow him home, let his wife see me teach him a bit. She might like that. If he has a wife. You got a wife?”

Trn looked down at a dark stain on the man’s yellow tie.

“Mirko, come home,” the woman whispered at his ear. “Come home and I’ll give you something special.”

A scoff gargled up from the man’s throat as his hand dismissed Trn’s lapel.

“He doesn’t even know if he has a wife. He only looks.”

“Come along home before the police come.”

“I’ll be watching for you,” the man said over his shoulder. “I’ll be watching.”

Up the hill Trn took the first lane he didn’t need to take, waited at a lamp post before correcting his way. He walked quickly, heel-beats sounding on the pavement, nothing behind but an old couple with a doddering dog. Further on he held to the iron stake of a fence and still nothing. At their gate he clinked through his keys, watching the empty street before and behind. In the dark well of the stairs he felt of his pockets, stopped and reached into his case, held it wide to squint and shift among the papers. Goddamnit. Six crowns and no tube of Chlorodont.

When the broadcast was over and the jazz began again Miroslav said, “It was the same as last night. What a waste of electricity.” “What else could it be?” Alena said and left for the kitchen. Trn removed the Churchillka and replaced the back to the radio and tuned to Vienna so music waltzed into the room. The coil he wound three times in its linen and set in the sideboard drawer under the last tablecloth, the lace that had belonged to the mother-in-law he never knew. In Miroslav’s room he found the boy sitting on his knees in his grandfather’s chair, his figure huddled against the cone of light from the desk lamp.

“It’ll soon be time for dinner.”

The boy didn’t turn. His geography book was open to the bulging form of a yellowed continent, the boy’s finger tracing the names of colonies, rivers, settlements.

“Does the radio say there is fighting in Africa?”

“There is fighting in the desert here, along the coast.”

“Will they explode the pyramids? And the Sphinx?”

“Do you have a test coming?”

“Next week.”

“There is no fighting near the pyramids. So the Sphinx is safe. I’m proud of you for studying early.”

The boy shrugged, turned back several pages.

“London looks a big city. You lived there.”

“For a time. It was the biggest city in the world. I suppose it is still. I studied in a big library. For some reason it was called the British Library.”

He waited for a smile to curve the boy’s cheek but none appeared so he combed his fingers through the boy’s hair twice.

“Is the British Library still there?”

“Yes.”

“It hasn’t caught fire?”

“No.”

“And burned?”

“No, it’s all still standing very safe and strong.”

“How do you know?”

“I’m sure I would have heard.”

“Daddy?” He unbent his legs. Out of their deep wells his eyes looked up.

“What is it, my boy?” Trn leaned and kissed almost the crown of his head but Aleks seemed not to feel.

“Is England going to save us?”

“Aleks. We must be very careful what we say. Remember?”

“But we’re not outside the house.”

“I know. But at times our tongues don’t recall where we are and our words escape before we think.”

“Like when Mother shouts.”

“We all shout sometimes.”

“I don’t.” His fingers traced the shores of Britain. “You don’t.”

“You remember what we said of politics?”

“It’s complicated. It’s what you hear on the radio.”

“That’s true. Politics is especially complex these days.”

“Danko’s parents listen to the politics too.”

“How do you know?”

“He says they hold their ears very close to the radio like you do.”

“Aleks, we must be very careful about politics and the radio now. We shouldn’t speak about it. It’s best if we don’t even mention the radio.”

Aleks looked down at the page, the map.

“Will we be rescued by Christmas? Can I ask that?”

“This Christmas will be like last Christmas, I think.”

The boy laid his chin on his arm.

“Will we be rescued by my birthday?”

“We must all be patient. Even if it is very hard.”

“I will be eight.”

“We will plan a celebration no matter what politics says that day. Agreed?”

“It will still be permitted to have a cake then? A small one?”

“Of course Mama will bake a cake.”

“Daddy?”

“Yes?”

“How is England going to rescue us if it’s burning?”

He laid a hand over the boy’s thin hand.

“I don’t know, Aleks.”

“Germany is burning too.”

Trn nodded.

“But we’re not.”

“No, we’re not.”

“But I have my mask if necessary. When I put it on you used to say I looked like a mouse. You called me a little mouse.”

The hand escaped and lifted the pages back until the old republic was before them, a plump salamander nosing into the green lands of the Teutons. Aryan lands.

“Daddy? Where are the scissors?”

“I suppose they must be in Grandfather’s desk. Probably there in the kneehole drawer.”

“Don’t we have scissors? You and me and Mother? Our scissors?”

“I’m sure we brought them. Probably in a drawer in the kitchen. Why do you need scissors?”

“I’ll show.”

He pushed away from the desk, hopped from the chair, left the door open. Across the hall came the scrape of a drawer pulled out, another, Alena telling him to wash, clatter and rummage and then Aleks back with the long blades of Trn’s old desk scissors in his fist.

“What are you going to do?”

“Mr. Fischer said to bring our geography books with us on Monday.” He shifted the book on the desk, the yellow skin of the salamander pocked with local habitations, scars of dark roads. “Because he’s going to cut this map out of all our books. He says it’s no longer valid.” His eyes looked up at Trn’s. “He said those are his instructions.”

“And so you’re going to do it yourself first.”

“No.”

He fitted his slender fingers into the handles, turned some pages until Africa reappeared, lifted and snipped at the gutter.

“Aleks, what are you doing?”

The small teeth bit the lower lip as the scissors rasped and bit through the border of the page.

“Aleks, wait.”

“It’s my book,” Aleks said. “It has my name in it.”

The scissors opened and closed a final time and he brought away the whole continent, raised the jagged page with a small smile, his dark eyes beaming.

“If this is all we need,” he said, “then I’ll leave the book at home and take only Africa to school.”

He hadn’t put off his coat before she appeared from the kitchen and said, “A man came by today.”

“What man?”

“He came about lessons.”

Trn paused, hooked his coat.

“He said that?”

“He wants to learn German.”

Her eyes never left him as he looped his scarf over the collar.

“He wants to learn German from me?”

“Yes.”

“Why should he think I would tutor him for German?”

She looked at the floor.

“Who is he?”

“He left a paper.”

She brought it from her apron pocket and he frowned at it in the dark hall.

“I don’t know this name. Had you ever seen him before?”

“No.”

“How did he get in?”

“I let him.”

“Alena.”

“He had graying hair. Father was here.”

“And he came alone?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t let him in again.”

“Why not?”

“Because he might want something besides lessons.”

“He said he wanted lessons.”

“I know. But that doesn’t make it so.”

“He’s going to pay, Viktor. He said he would pay in Reichsmarks if that’s what you preferred.”

“I don’t know him. And how did he learn of me?”

“But think of the money, Viktor.” She held out a clutching fist. “You know they’re going to cut rations again.”

“They’re always going to cut rations.”

“And so we could always use the money.” Her eyes scowled. “And yet you won’t give lessons.”

“No, I am not giving German lessons. If that is what he truly wants.”

“And what about what your family wants? What about Aleks? Your salary means less every month.”

He frowned at the ragged tassels of the rug, tried to toe one into place.

“I will find something.”

“Something besides the library? Besides sitting at the dining table staring out the window?”

“Yes, Alena. Something besides that.”

“Something with money in it. Something more than chess and the radio.” She forced out all the breath she had. “When?”

“Soon.”

“I don’t believe it.”

She went into the kitchen. He looked at the man’s name again and balled it in his fist and left it in his pocket. Miroslav looked up from the newspaper in the sitting room.

“How was the library?”

“Quiet as the Capuchins in their crypt. That economist was there, Kovar, with Dolezal.”

“He used to be a socialist, Kovar. I hear now he’s a national socialist. Everybody’s giving in. The longer it goes on the easier it becomes. Did you hear that Göring came to Prague yesterday and took our president to dinner? When they put the menu before him Hacha said, ‘Now where do I sign?’”

The old man chuckled and Trn smiled.

“At least we can still laugh.”

“As long as we’ve got that, Viktor, we’ve got something. What was Dolezal saying?”

“Dolezal wasn’t speaking today.”

“Just as well for you. I never liked Dolezal. Every time he came into the office to complain he would stroke that fat mustache and sit with his fat knees spread wide as if he had to accommodate titanic balls.”

“Perhaps he does.”

Miroslav frowned like a carp.

“I doubt it.”

“Did you see this man who came?”

“No. I didn’t.”

“I wish you had.”

“You think he’s not what he says he is.”

“Perhaps, but let’s not say that. If he is more than that he seems only to be watching for now.”

“Now that the whip hand is Heydrich’s who knows where the crop will fall. All those dozens they’ve shot just to cow us since he came to the castle. The Reichsprotektor and his protection.”

Trn nodded again and Miroslav handed him a newspaper.

“Nothing there you’ll want to read. Looks like the Russians are truly kaput.”

Vienna was playing Mozart. Miroslav slumped in his chair, trumpets and drums ebbing gently over his snores. Aleks considered the figurines on their shelf, brought one to Trn on the couch.

“What happened to her?”

“I’m afraid,” Trn whispered, “an accident befell her long ago.”

In his hand Aleks twisted the girl in her pink dress, examined the rough ceramic wound on her hand.

“You couldn’t fix her?”

“No, I couldn’t.”

“What was here?”

“I believe a little butterfly. Pink like her dress. Let’s put it back so we won’t have another mishap. It’s Mama’s.”

“It’s already broken.”

“Let’s not make it worse,” Trn whispered. Trumpets and drums. So Mozart was happy the day his heart brought his hand to these notes. As an ordinary man might hum on a sunny morning. Then the door rushed open.

“Dita doesn’t feel well,” Alena said, “and needs something from the shop. I’m going for her.”

“I didn’t hear her call. Do you want me to go?”

“It’s female things.”

“Oh.”

“Please put all that away if you’re done with it,” she said, waving a hand at the board and scattered pieces.

Aleks said, “Daddy was showing me the Czech variation of the Slav defense.”

“That must be the one where you lie on the floor while the others walk over you. I’ll be back.”

The door closed and the orchestra paused and then another movement began. Aleks put back the figurine and took down a squat pillar of wood browned at points with the oils of human hands. It filled his small palm. “This one is for chess.” He looked up. “Is it all right?”

“Yes. This one’s sturdier.”

“A man in England gave it to you.”

“That’s right. A man in Oxford. A very nice man named Hugh Peterborough.”

“Why did the man give it to you?”

“As a remembrance, so I would recall the times when we played chess together.”

“Does it work?”

“Do I remember? Yes, I remember vividly. He had thirty-two pieces like this one. He and his friends carved them during the war so they could play when there was time.”

“The last war.”

“That’s right.”

Trn noticed Miroslav’s open eyes. The old man reached for his pipe.

“Why I wonder do we never hear Liszt anymore? He’s Hungarian and they’re strong with the Axis.”

“They play him sometimes. But you’re right. You don’t hear him so much. They’re using a theme from Liszt in the fanfare for news from Russia. Next time there’s an announcement you’ll hear it.”

“As soon as Leningrad falls, I suppose.” Miroslav rang the bowl of the pipe against the rim of the ashtray.

Trn said, “You might think because Liszt worked with gypsy tunes they’d exclude him altogether. Since anything having to do with them is verboten now.”

Miroslav nodded at the ceiling, spoke to it with a flourish of his pipe.

“Now we have the unending Deutsche. Beethoven, Sturm und Drang, Bruckner und Brahms. Both Strausses so the Wehrmacht can waltz across Europe from Finisterre to the Urals. All this patriotism, measure after measure of martial parading. It’s all only organized farting.”

Aleks laughed behind his fist.

“Every bar a thundering prelude so they can splutter on about the Almighty this and Providence that. God is there no end of Wagner? How much can one man write? He would be the Führer’s favorite.”

“They can hardly talk about Christ,” Trn said, “since Christ was a Jew.”

Miroslav nodded, packing his pipe.

“Did you hear about Heydrich attending his first concert at the Rudolfinum? It seems our Reichsprotektor refused to enter the building if Mendelssohn’s bust was still in place on the roof so two soldiers were detailed to bring it down. The trouble was neither of them had the vaguest idea what the hell Mendelssohn looked like so they trooped three times round the perimeter without success. Then one of them snapped his fingers. Of course, it’ll be the one with the biggest nose. So they began the round once more before they both said at the same time, ‘There, that fellow over there, the one with the beret.’ And they sprinted over the lead because the concert was due to start any moment and hauled down the bust of Wagner.”

Trn smiled and Miroslav clapped his knee as the voice on the radio introduced an aria from Parsifal.

Aleks still turned the piece in his hand. He rubbed the rough bearded face with the pad of his thumb, the worn crown, the wooden eyes.

“It’s the king, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“Why did he give you the king?”

“I don’t know why.”

Aleks looked up into his father’s face. His big eyes dark but open to the world, darker against the palest skin and the ghosts of veins at his temples.

“Why did he get to keep the pieces?”

“I don’t understand.”

“You said he carved them with his friends. But he kept all the pieces. Till he gave you one.”

You cannot tell such a child all the truth. Such a child cannot hear it and remain a child. So you cannot say, “Because he was the last one left alive. He was the solitary survivor. The one who pulled his mask on first, the one who burrowed deepest in the slime, the one who didn’t live just long enough after the concussion subsided to see the pair of his legs tangled on the far side of the trench before he whimpered and bled out all his blood.” You must instead blink and stare across the emptiness of words between you and innocence and say finally, because after all something must finally be said, “I don’t know why.”