Read Online The Drowning Of A Goldfish by Lidmila; Sováková - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lidmila; Sováková
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the third time in the twentieth century.
Until 1939, it was a town with two ethnic populations, one Czech, the other German. During the Nazi occupation, the Czechs were driven out. After 1945, the same thing happened to the Germans.
Rudolf will be leaving the following day for ÃstÃ. Father will escort me there in two weeksâ time.
The train is entering a dirty, deserted station. Between its rusted tracks, clumps of dusty weeds shiver under macerated newspapers.
The roof of the station, ripped open, lets in the wind and rain.
Doctor Faustus, riding a fire-bomb, abandoned forever this wasted land.
Rudolf awaits me on the platform. At ease, master of himself and others, his eyes are green and hard beneath a soft gray felt hat.
Father delivers me to my husband and walks away in long strides. I watch him disappear. The carriage swallows him as the train whistles and moves off towards Prague.
Rudolf takes my suitcase and heads towards the exit. He does not speak. Everything was said before the wedding.
The large square is empty. Nothing moves except the light as it glides along the façades without touching them.
O Kurosawa! Let your samurai, with his just sword, take me from this city of the dead!
A raucous cry cuts the silence and fades away. A staggering drunk beats against the wall of the town.
The streetcar rattles with age. The wooden seat, hard and flaky, pokes me with its bony fingers.
We roll along the main street. Its fixed immobility is as rigid as an iron bar, ready to strike.
We climb a hill. On both sides, toothless houses carry the souvenirs of war with the total detachment of a dropout.
Rudolf takes my suitcase and we get off.
I am struck by the beauty of the house, surrounded by a large garden. It is a villa of the Belle Epoque style; noble in its form, harmonious in its embellishments.
On its façade, women with glorious bodies stretch out their arms, offering the dazzled visitor garlands of gorgeous flowers.
The two levels carry the crown of turrets with a suave grace. The windows tenderly blend the décor of luxurious fruit with the ivy, gliding gracefully alongside the walls.
Positioned against an emerald hillside, softly rising up from behind, the villa has the immaculate grandeur of a perfect beauty. Time floats around it without touching its perfection. The villa mellows and does not grow old.
The undulating garden overflows with cunning artifacts: trees are sculpted into rounded shapes; boxwood hedges with hard, gleaming leaves, mark pathways to rockeries, scattered with crooked grottoes, in which baroque statues hide their flawless charms.
Twisting me into its image, the garden clasps me in its magic screen. Melting under its treacherous caresses, I enter the pavilion of the cancerous.
Our room is located high above in the attic. It is barren as a monkâs cell. There are two metal hospital beds, a little table with two straight-back chairs, a sagging set of shelves, supported against the wall, and a yellowish wardrobe.
The bathroom and the kitchenette are in the corridor for common usage.
Rudolf puts my suitcase on the table and leaves for work.
I stand beneath the grilled dormer-window, exposing a whitened sky.
Stifling anguish grips my throat. My heart palpitates in the expectation of an inexpressible distress. Cold sweat is streaming down my back, and I shiver in the rhythm of my terror-stricken breath:
I am alone.
Alone for ever.
Alone in time.
Alone in space.
And it breaks my heart.
It is five oâclock one afternoon in early December, the day before Santa Claus .
I step out of the door of the school. VodiÄkova Street jumps into my sight and drums in my ears .
Streetcars flow along the veins of rails as cars chase them. They intertwine and stop in a stupor in front of the red lights. Pedestrians swarm ahead, escaping from their unquenchable greed .
The windows of the café-sweetshop Myšák, gleaming with mellow barley-sugar light,
Until 1939, it was a town with two ethnic populations, one Czech, the other German. During the Nazi occupation, the Czechs were driven out. After 1945, the same thing happened to the Germans.
Rudolf will be leaving the following day for ÃstÃ. Father will escort me there in two weeksâ time.
The train is entering a dirty, deserted station. Between its rusted tracks, clumps of dusty weeds shiver under macerated newspapers.
The roof of the station, ripped open, lets in the wind and rain.
Doctor Faustus, riding a fire-bomb, abandoned forever this wasted land.
Rudolf awaits me on the platform. At ease, master of himself and others, his eyes are green and hard beneath a soft gray felt hat.
Father delivers me to my husband and walks away in long strides. I watch him disappear. The carriage swallows him as the train whistles and moves off towards Prague.
Rudolf takes my suitcase and heads towards the exit. He does not speak. Everything was said before the wedding.
The large square is empty. Nothing moves except the light as it glides along the façades without touching them.
O Kurosawa! Let your samurai, with his just sword, take me from this city of the dead!
A raucous cry cuts the silence and fades away. A staggering drunk beats against the wall of the town.
The streetcar rattles with age. The wooden seat, hard and flaky, pokes me with its bony fingers.
We roll along the main street. Its fixed immobility is as rigid as an iron bar, ready to strike.
We climb a hill. On both sides, toothless houses carry the souvenirs of war with the total detachment of a dropout.
Rudolf takes my suitcase and we get off.
I am struck by the beauty of the house, surrounded by a large garden. It is a villa of the Belle Epoque style; noble in its form, harmonious in its embellishments.
On its façade, women with glorious bodies stretch out their arms, offering the dazzled visitor garlands of gorgeous flowers.
The two levels carry the crown of turrets with a suave grace. The windows tenderly blend the décor of luxurious fruit with the ivy, gliding gracefully alongside the walls.
Positioned against an emerald hillside, softly rising up from behind, the villa has the immaculate grandeur of a perfect beauty. Time floats around it without touching its perfection. The villa mellows and does not grow old.
The undulating garden overflows with cunning artifacts: trees are sculpted into rounded shapes; boxwood hedges with hard, gleaming leaves, mark pathways to rockeries, scattered with crooked grottoes, in which baroque statues hide their flawless charms.
Twisting me into its image, the garden clasps me in its magic screen. Melting under its treacherous caresses, I enter the pavilion of the cancerous.
Our room is located high above in the attic. It is barren as a monkâs cell. There are two metal hospital beds, a little table with two straight-back chairs, a sagging set of shelves, supported against the wall, and a yellowish wardrobe.
The bathroom and the kitchenette are in the corridor for common usage.
Rudolf puts my suitcase on the table and leaves for work.
I stand beneath the grilled dormer-window, exposing a whitened sky.
Stifling anguish grips my throat. My heart palpitates in the expectation of an inexpressible distress. Cold sweat is streaming down my back, and I shiver in the rhythm of my terror-stricken breath:
I am alone.
Alone for ever.
Alone in time.
Alone in space.
And it breaks my heart.
It is five oâclock one afternoon in early December, the day before Santa Claus .
I step out of the door of the school. VodiÄkova Street jumps into my sight and drums in my ears .
Streetcars flow along the veins of rails as cars chase them. They intertwine and stop in a stupor in front of the red lights. Pedestrians swarm ahead, escaping from their unquenchable greed .
The windows of the café-sweetshop Myšák, gleaming with mellow barley-sugar light,
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