Read Online The Drowning Of A Goldfish by Lidmila; Sováková - Free Book Online

woman, a mere cripple! And this had happened to him! TO HIM! an honest man, with nothing to hide! He had been dishonored! Slandered, stripped of his honor!
    How could he now face his children? Had he not failed them with such a mother? Had he not endangered their success in society? What a debilitating wound he had inflicted upon them! A father with no sense of decency; would they ever forgive him?! Must he fall under the burden of his guilt?!
    All that I know about Mary is from a photo, taken on her wedding day, where a young girl with an angelic face floats in uninhibited admiration, looking up towards the man who, in his grandness and generosity, consented to marry her, the daughter of simple country folks, unworthy of the honor of becoming Mrs. Cop.
    Velenský, solemn in his rigorously buttoned uniform, is perched above her. In order to reach up above his wife, a head taller than himself, the cop mounted a footstool, from where he is staring at the public with a satisfied sneer on his waxy face.
    This photo is all that has remained of Mary. Her son, a passionate photographer, never found his mother a subject worthy of his art.
    â€œI regret it with all my heart. Can you imagine the joy of this poor woman if I had asked her to pose for me?” he told me one day.
    With Rudolf’s photos, you pose.
    You are standing still; you take a position with a flattering angle; you are smiling; you are saying “cheese,” your mouth half-open; your breasts up and pointing towards the spectator; your hair just done; your bare shoulders luring … Rudolf’s females know how to market their charms.
    Rudolf is a collector. He still keeps them all—the photos of the village sweethearts, of the darlings from his dancing classes, of the bathing beauties from the pool, of the nymphs from the ponds, of the mermaids at the beaches, pasted meticulously and methodically on the pages of gold-rimmed albums.
    The dreams of Rudolf have the body of a slut.
    We place the bouquet of plastic flowers on Mary’s tomb.
    The forest is full of blooming snowdrops, of branches of fir trees, of mistletoe, and of soft, green moss.
    The deceased wife of a retired cop deserves “something better.”
    â€œAnd what would the people say?! One has the means. One can afford an expensive, everlasting bouquet which will still look nice in summer!
    â€œEveryone has to see that you are willing to spend some money in memory of your saintly mother, Rudolf,” says the cop.
    We are standing in front of Mary’s tomb.
    Rudolf, his head piously lowered, his face somber, gives a heavy sigh. Two meager tears appear between his silky eyelashes and trickle down across his lovely cheeks.
    What a pity that his mother does not live now, when he would love this saintly woman so much, when he would care for her, return her devotion a thousand times.
    â€œAll would change,” babbles Rudolf, making the sign of the cross on the marble tomb.
    It is noon. His conscience is at peace; his stomach rumbles.
    We leave the cemetery to go home.
    The retired cop enters. His second wife hastily appears, cackling like a startled hen. She helps him take off his coat, brings him a stool to sit down. He sticks his boot between her thighs; she pulls with all her might, the boot comes off and she falls hard on her bottom.
    The cop’s face lightens up and he chokes with glee. What fun!
    The wife stifles a painful cry, rubs her bruised buttocks, and laughs heartily.
    Good women often laugh.
    After the putsch of 1948, Mary’s brother, a farmer neither rich nor poor, had the foresight to become a member of the Communist Party, which rewarded him with a promotion to the head of the Velen farming cooperative.
    With time, his son succeeded him. As in every oligarchy, the communist one is hereditary.
    Thus, the retired cop Velenský got another piece of the cake. The cooperative would come to turn the soil of his garden, to sow the field behind his