Read Online Harlequin's Millions by Bohumil Hrabal - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bohumil Hrabal
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Madame the Countess, that room now has four beds, they look like aviaries for birds of prey. Each one is equipped with a net, like childrenâs beds covered with a net to keep the child from falling out when he has a fever or a restless dream. From time to time there are patients here, old men and women, who are so crazy that neither sedatives nor injections nor any other medicine can help them. Itâs so sad, at my own risk I once climbed into the crown of an old chestnut, the branches were as close together as the rungs of a ladder, it was like climbing up to a deer stand. And there, under a net, I saw an old woman in white holding the cords between her fingers, she was on her knees peering out the window into the darkness, she looked in my direction, her eyes bulged with terror, her hair hung loose and she had no teeth, and when I looked at her again I nearly fell out of the tree, she looked so much like me that I thought she
was
me. And I climbed down carefully, fromone branch to the next, concentrate, old girl, I told myself, donât slip and break your bones, stay calm, you had a bad scare, easy does it, and when I reached the ground I walked into the darkness, the only light on the second floor came from the windows where Count Å pork once had his chambers. I ran into the vestibule and up the stairs, I ignored the statues and the beautiful frescoes, in the corridor of the womenâs section I stopped short next to a little table, I raised my head, but there was no one else in the corridor, the night-lights shone dimly through the open doors and someone was snoring and from the corners of the room with the eight beds, from each corner you could hear a loud smacking noise, which went on until the snoring stopped. On the wall was a sign: How do our ladies pass the time? I didnât understand it, and read the message again. It was framed behind glass. How do our ladies pass the time? And on the little table and the next one and the one after that, I made my way down the corridor from one table to the next, amazed at first, then I reached out and touched the baby clothes, baby bibs, a baby bolero, even some swaddling bands, which you wrap crisscross around a babyâs quilt like a braided Christmas bread, knitted booties embroidered with flowers, blouses and smocks, sunbonnets and caps with earflaps, tiny gloves that brought tears to your eyes, pairs of mittens joined together with colorful string, muffs. Yes, this was thework of the old women who sat here in the sun crocheting and whose knitting needles cast reflections on the ceiling, on the multitude of cherubs and cupids, divine children who scattered down an ever-replenishing stream of flowers from their horns and cornucopias while treading the air with their feet to keep their balance under the weight of the Mediterranean flora. This was no handiwork exhibition, nor was it an answer to the question of how our ladies passed the time, here on these tables lay the things the old women couldnât give up, here lay the suppressed and for that reason constant and everlasting necessities no woman could live without, not even an old lady, a pensioner in Count Å porkâs former castle â¦
5
        T HERE WAS A TIME , I WAS STILL YOUNG, WHEN I thought there was a life waiting for me elsewhere, I even thought it was in Prague. When Francin drove to Prague once a month, to the Brewerâs House, he always went in the Å koda 430, Iâd put on my most fashionable dress, but each time Francin begged me to pretend I was just going out for a walk, I had to leave half an hour earlier than he did, so no one at the brewery would know he was taking me with him, people might resent that. And so I sometimes had to walk ten whole miles toward Prague, sulking, angry, I, who wanted to see for myself whether I could live in Prague, I, who assumed I could be just as much the center of attention in Prague as I was in our little
was
me. And I climbed down carefully, fromone branch to the next, concentrate, old girl, I told myself, donât slip and break your bones, stay calm, you had a bad scare, easy does it, and when I reached the ground I walked into the darkness, the only light on the second floor came from the windows where Count Å pork once had his chambers. I ran into the vestibule and up the stairs, I ignored the statues and the beautiful frescoes, in the corridor of the womenâs section I stopped short next to a little table, I raised my head, but there was no one else in the corridor, the night-lights shone dimly through the open doors and someone was snoring and from the corners of the room with the eight beds, from each corner you could hear a loud smacking noise, which went on until the snoring stopped. On the wall was a sign: How do our ladies pass the time? I didnât understand it, and read the message again. It was framed behind glass. How do our ladies pass the time? And on the little table and the next one and the one after that, I made my way down the corridor from one table to the next, amazed at first, then I reached out and touched the baby clothes, baby bibs, a baby bolero, even some swaddling bands, which you wrap crisscross around a babyâs quilt like a braided Christmas bread, knitted booties embroidered with flowers, blouses and smocks, sunbonnets and caps with earflaps, tiny gloves that brought tears to your eyes, pairs of mittens joined together with colorful string, muffs. Yes, this was thework of the old women who sat here in the sun crocheting and whose knitting needles cast reflections on the ceiling, on the multitude of cherubs and cupids, divine children who scattered down an ever-replenishing stream of flowers from their horns and cornucopias while treading the air with their feet to keep their balance under the weight of the Mediterranean flora. This was no handiwork exhibition, nor was it an answer to the question of how our ladies passed the time, here on these tables lay the things the old women couldnât give up, here lay the suppressed and for that reason constant and everlasting necessities no woman could live without, not even an old lady, a pensioner in Count Å porkâs former castle â¦
5
        T HERE WAS A TIME , I WAS STILL YOUNG, WHEN I thought there was a life waiting for me elsewhere, I even thought it was in Prague. When Francin drove to Prague once a month, to the Brewerâs House, he always went in the Å koda 430, Iâd put on my most fashionable dress, but each time Francin begged me to pretend I was just going out for a walk, I had to leave half an hour earlier than he did, so no one at the brewery would know he was taking me with him, people might resent that. And so I sometimes had to walk ten whole miles toward Prague, sulking, angry, I, who wanted to see for myself whether I could live in Prague, I, who assumed I could be just as much the center of attention in Prague as I was in our little
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