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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780945774150 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Catbird Press |
| Publication date: | 01/01/1993 |
| Edition description: | 1st English-language ed |
| Pages: | 391 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 1.30(d) |
About the Author
Vladimír Páral is the author of 21 novels, including Catapult and Lovers & Murderers.
Read an Excerpt
The Four Sonyas
By Vladimír Páral, William Harkins
Catbird Press
Copyright © 1971 Vladimír PáralAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-936053-32-2
CHAPTER 1
SONYA'S HOTEL YEARS
The airy bluish folds of the second-floor lace curtains of Villa Cynthia, built in the era of Art Nouveau and since then modernized several times, each time more expensively (the last time, last year, for an even hundred thou), came together with a firm tug of the cord and formed a continuous veil, a signal for the two below to conceal themselves in their designated places and remain there on guard and motionless, no matter what might happen in front of the villa's grilled entranceway.
Zahn nodded his head zealously as a signal to the window above that he'd got the point. His wife, Zahnova, set down her black suitcase, lined on the sides and corners in light-colored leather, right next to the inward-facing side of the stone lantern by the door, all precisely according to the scenario and so that the entire scene could be viewed more easily and completely. Both nodded their heads once more to the one above them, obediently and joyfully (they both detested Aja), and disappeared into the entranceway, which they double locked, leaving the key in the lock so that it would be impossible to dislodge it using a similar key from the outside.
Engineer Zikmund Holy (49), tall and slender, clad in (first-class) tailor-made trousers of fine-combed, light-beige wool, and an exclusive chocolate-colored shirt made of natural silk, with a sulfur-yellow tie magnificently displayed on a barely discernible tummy, withdrew from the window and walked noiselessly over the purple Turkish rug to the ebony glassed sideboard; with the skillful, silent movements of a single hand he unlocked and let down the massive door: on the counter thus formed he placed a simply etched glass taken from the upper section of the mirrored shelves and drew out and uncorked (always with a single hand) a bottle of Tarragona spiced wine, in one motion he poured his noontime dose into the glass (precisely the same — a finger's breadth below the top of the glass — as any other day) and with alpaca-lined tongs (always with a single hand) he lowered a circlet of lemon onto the surface of the wine. Aja will be surprised. But if she looks hard, will she be able to see anything from there? She won't look, of course, but let's hope we can hear her angry cries (and later, perhaps, her begging) through the casements of the side window, opened for just this purpose.
Unfaithful wives have been stoned, buried alive, immured, or at least whipped half-naked at the pillory — the unfaithful wife Aja Hola would in a very few minutes find a locked house and a suitcase full of her things standing next to the lantern to the left of the door. She won't take a good hard look, she'll curse. Vulgarly. At most she'll beg a bit ... and we'll have a good view of that from here, through the lace curtains. Of course, the curtains could be opened, making the view somewhat more colorful, with sharper contours. Two, three, no more than five minutes of ecstasy. Zikmund took a sip of his drink.
What will follow? A small tug-of-war over the divorce, but not too much. He'll cope easily, as he has done twice before. If Aja's cheeky, I'll put the screws on. If she dares come here again, the Zahns will work her over in the garage. As they did that time with Marie. And then he'll be free. Chess, the mountains, and detective stories with iced champagne. And no more marriages again, ever. At most some sort of pick-me-up ... something young, foolish, and obedient. Aja's room will be vacant. How many beautiful young girls will thank him for it ... and oblige. Followed by ten hours a day of sleep, and playing with the cat.
Down the street, on the other side of the low metal fence with sharp points on top and stone pillars (the whole thing rebuilt for 8,600 crowns), came Aja Hola in a red dress with wildly huge white dots, white sandals (340 crowns), a white shopping bag (420 crowns) over her shoulder, tan and on the whole very pretty for her twenty-eight years, with a head of hair (her permanents cost 50 crowns a piece, but then who really knows how much, and hardly as often as she claims, as she has claimed until today), effectively disheveled from artfulness, recently experienced bliss, neglect, or to be provocative perhaps? I have prepared a little surprise for you, my love, and Zikmund took another sip, again a very small one. What mattered to him most was that today his noontime dose of Tarragona should last him until the soup arrived, as any other day.
Aja comes through the gate and walks along the main drive. He looks at his wristwatch (2,350 crowns) just at the moment when she ought to catch sight of her suitcase beneath the lantern. She tries the door. Again. She fishes for the key in her handbag. But somehow the key doesn't fit, of course. She's a bit confused now. Zikmund takes another sip.
"Mr. Zahn!" Through the open casement of the side window Aja's rapid breathing can be heard perfectly. In the entryway, Mr. Zahn hears, but doesn't listen.
"Mrs. Zahnova!" In the kitchen, Mrs. Zahnova rejoices silently.
Those two are marvelous. Their fifteen years at the Cynthia have been excellent training for them. They're perfect.
Aja steps back from the door and stumbles over her suitcase. "Ziki!"
Her eyes don't actually goggle, but her anger plays according to the script. Zikmund draws back the curtains so that she can see him easily from below. Behind the closed window he takes a sip. Let's wait now until she starts to beg.
"Ziki, are you playing some sort of crazy joke?"
Aja's face is turned upward. This is how I wanted it, dear. Behind the window Zikmund raises his glass as in a toast, but he doesn't drink, he only grins.
"Ziki, at least open the window. I'll explain everything — Ziki!"
Aja's lovely, tanned face is turned upward. It shines only on the temples, as it does after love-making ... go down, let her in, tell lies again for a while, avail yourself once more of her tanned face with the moist temples on the white damask cushion —
"Ziki. You can't do this to me ..."
I can do what I like. The momentary weakness passes, Zikmund looks at his watch and then again out the window. Aja opens the suitcase and then slams it shut again. Will she beg? Or will she carry on?
"Don't imagine that ... I've got my papers and all my things in there ... Ziki! This can't happen so suddenly. I'm going to the police!"
Her papers and documents are all bound in red in a pocket of the suitcase, and the police will find a house locked and silent. So now get the begging part over with and then clear out. In eleven minutes it'll be time to have my lunch.
"Ziki. Ziki. Please ..."
Aja's lovely pleading face with its moist temples ... now it's perfect. Zikmund closes his eyes with pleasure and permits himself — Aja had long since ceased to interest him — a glance at the golden ring and silver flesh of the circlet of lemon swimming in the warm brown wine.
Noiselessly he drew back from the window and refrained from facing it even when its glass broke behind his back, noiselessly he left the room as the stone quietly rolled across the purple rug and came to rest between the white lions and the stylized grapes. Zikmund left the room, cautiously stepping over the stone thrown by Aja's hand. He left the room with the unfinished drink, and by closing the door he filtered out the sound of Aja's curses (particularly coarse), on the staircase he found absolute quiet and slowly he descended the stairs to the entrance hall.
"She's gone now," said Zahn, and he would have laughed if that had been respectful.
"This evening change the locks on the front door and the gate."
"Preparations have already been made, sir."
"From now on, everything has to be locked. How about the ignition?"
"But you've already taken the keys. We could change it, but it wouldn't look pretty. I'd rather arrange a hidden switch for the electrical system; that would be useful, for instance, when we park in Prague overnight."
"Good. You're both off till Monday."
"Thank you, sir."
"Berta can serve lunch now."
Sitting alone at the long table in the ground-floor dining room, paneled in Finnish larch, Zikmund stirred his bouillon and egg and just before taking the first spoonful finished his noontime Tarragona.
Following lunch (veal cutlet nature with herb butter, cherry compote, grated roquefort cheese) and an hour's siesta (absolutely dreamless, save that just before waking he saw the tantalizing image of an unknown girl kneeling in a long children's nightshirt, a view from behind, but only a few seconds or so), a hot-and-cold shower, a good rub with a towel, in the entryway Zikmund took a packed weekend suitcase from Berta Zahnova, in front of the garage he got into his car (a low-to-the-ground, blue -black British Triumph), already started up by Wolf Zahn, its engine warm, gas tank full to the brim, oil full to the top line, and the battery charged, on the street he shifted into second gear and right away into third as he drove through Klise, Usti's ritzy section, and then the Vseborice prefab housing on his way to the concrete highway to the north, he shifted into fourth gear, switched on the radio, below Decin Castle he crossed the bridge over the Elbe, and after a further, pleasant fifty-minute drive up mountain roads to the resort town of Hrusov, at the foot of steep ridges, in the vicinity of Cottex Plant No. 08, along the main — and only — street on which, right behind the drugstore, there is an open field alongside a real log cabin, in the center of the round square a red gas pump and grass sprouting up out of the pavement, on the less frequented spots (especially the square) Swedish clover blooms purple, but everything is clean and the sharp air has the perfume of water.
OUR FIRST FLORICULTURAL EVENING proclaimed a handmade placard at the gate of the Hotel Hubertus, and Ziki drove into the hotel courtyard, the manager, Volrab, hastened to open the car door (he never failed to do this), his wife Volrabka wiped her hands on her apron and already she was rushing to carry his suitcase up to room No. 2, which is reserved in our name for the entire year.
Not a single customer in the bar, Zikmund took a seat at his table by the window. From the kitchen doorway the waitress, Sonya, smiled at him.
"The usual!" Zikmund shouted across the room, and in a businesslike manner he scrutinized Sonya, who leaned over the refrigerator, stood on her tiptoes to reach some glasses on the top shelf, carefully poured out the dry vermouth, and ran to the kitchen for a circlet of lemon.
Hair thick, long, passionately red, skin taut, fine, gleaming, shining green eyes, not even nineteen yet, beautifully developed, an erect carriage, breasts placed far apart, delicate shoulders and a delicate waist, a flat stomach underneath the tightly laced apron, long thighs and long legs ... first-class stock, daughter of a brilliant surgeon and self-taught aesthete who, after a successful Prague practice, had built a villa here big as a castle and who, like a village squire, raised his daughter not for work but for marriage. But he died prematurely, his villa was turned into a dental clinic and the orphaned Sonya taken on as a housemaid, one who was now to be grateful to the Volrabs for a bed in the Hubertus kitchen, though she was shamelessly exploited by these two nimble fatties. She will give thanks on her knees, with her hands clasped.
Sonya spread a napkin over the metal tray, underneath his glass, and before coming out from behind the bar she pulled back her apron, smoothed her hair, and again smiled prettily. Created for a sensitive connoisseur. She would oblige. A little girl to be played with. When she's good, she'll get stockings and she'll be permitted to play the piano. And when she's bad, she'll be whipped.
"Sonya. Last time you told me you wanted to get away from here at any price. I have a nice room for you ... everything you need."
The Hotel Hubertus' FIRST FLORICULTURAL EVENING (MUSIC — SINGING — RAFFLE two posters promised, both of them designed by Sonya employing bright crayons she still had from school, one she nailed up on the front door of the hotel, the other on the door of the post office at the Hrusov train station) filled the bar for the first time on a Sunday since the appearance of the local magician Tonik Magik three years before. The manager's wife, Volrabka (a sweaty slippery ball), was in the kitchen diluting the wine and turning out individual servings of salami. The music and singing were provided by Sonya (wearing a new green silk dress — it was the first time she'd ever appeared in the bar without her apron!) playing the ancient piano to frequent applause. At midnight Volrab (a sweaty slippery ball) drew the last of the second barrel of beer and declared the raffle open.
A total of seven customers had, for three crowns apiece, purchased tickets (pages from last year's desk calendar), to which the management of the hotel had added a free carnation (Volrabka had propagated two whole beds of these from a one-crown seed packet), and now Sonya was making the rounds of the tables with a basket containing the collected tickets covered with a napkin and the first (and only) prize (a horribly synthetic Metropol Dessert Wine, product of the Jilemnice starch factory, suddenly withdrawn from sale the year before last). Ticket No. 3, belonging to postmaster Alois Hudlicky (a pale, shy little man wearing lenseless spectacles), was the winner.
"And now our deserving postmaster will take the first and foremost prize of our Carnation Soirée, a bottle of the finest Cinzano Very Special French vermouth — may we have applause —" Volrab thundered in his whiskey bass, Alois Hudlicky bowed distractedly, Sonya smiled prettily, the customers clapped, and Volrab went fluently on: "— and in addition to the first prize, we are adding a further delicacy, our little Sonya, just come closer and you, Postmaster, come up here, sweets for the sweet, a kiss from our little Sonya — may we have some applause —"
Sonya kissed Alois Hudlicky on his sweaty bald pate, the bar filled with applause, and she stuck his carnation into her low neckline and then smiled prettily, the applause intensified. "We want one too —" the forest ranger, Sames, shouted (a fifty-year-old bearded bachelor), "we've paid for the flowers!" and the applause became thunderous, "For every — flower — a buss!" the white-haired veterinarian Srol chanted till his face turned red, and the whole bar lent its support.
"In view of the wishes of the honorable public, instead of a single carnation, we shall reward you all as a favor from our Hotel Administration, one sweet kiss — Sonya, come closer, and you, gentlemen, come up according to the number of the ticket you've drawn, and each of you will get applause as well —" and Volrab admitted each gentleman by number.
No. 1: The hunchbacked blacksmith at Cottex (his tall, beautiful, icy spouse followed his movements from and to their table with great distaste) — Smack!
No. 2: Beda Balada (an intellectual from Usti nad Labem, summer guest of the Hubertus, in Room No. 3) — Smack!
No. 3: The veterinarian Srol (at his table his silent spouse gazed at the tablecloth, after thirty-seven years of married life she did not dare say anything to him.) — Smack!
No. 4: Petrik Metelka (a bachelor colorist at Cottex, whose ears turned red at the moment he fulfilled his secret desire) — Smack!
No. 6: Ranger Sames (with his two thumbs and index fingers he cruelly stretched Sonya's face along its vertical axis, so that he might enjoy the so-called kiss-and-pinch) — Smack!
And No. 7: Ruda Mach (from his table Jarunka Slana, Sonya's best friend, grinned at him, she had come to take leave of Ruda forever and spend her last night with him) — Smack! and Smack! (twice in all) and already shouts from the bar: "What's up?!" "Just one!" "Every one should get two!" To this Ruda Mach answered — Smack!
"How people work out their repressed ideas ..." whispered the pharmacist Berka, wearing dark glasses (upset that he hadn't bought a ticket), his spouse (who also had a university degree) also in dark glasses (they were summer guests, in Room No. 6).
"But the girl really is quite chic," Alena Berkova said.
During No. 6's buss, Engineer Ziki Holy suddenly got up from his unfinished vermouth (carrying three losing tickets inside his jacket), and soon after him, a mysterious guest wearing dark evening attire disappeared inconspicuously.
"Innkeeper! Where are the rest of the tickets? I'll buy another three!" Ranger Sames shouted, and impatiently he readied his thumbs and index fingers.
"Let's have them here! I'll take five!" shouted silver-haired Srol.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Four Sonyas by Vladimír Páral, William Harkins. Copyright © 1971 Vladimír Páral. Excerpted by permission of Catbird Press.
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