Baba Yaga Laid an Egg

‘I’m not sure. I just said it without thinking. Karel Gott, the golden nightingale… That was long ago.’

‘Zlaty slavik!’[5] said the pleasant girl. ‘But this is our own, local, Karel Gott. I think that he’s some relation of the famous singer.’

‘So? Give us a price.’

‘I’m sorry. It’s not for sale,’ said the girl apologetically.

Just when it seemed to Beba and Kukla and the girl that the situation was hopeless, and as the two women were preparing to leave, a sullen-looking man with wild hair burst into the gallery. Beba recognised him at once. It was that idiot, the Russian, from the casino. The man went straight from the door into an adjoining room without so much as glancing at the visitors.

For some reason, the girl lowered her voice:

‘That is the owner of the gallery. Hold on a minute, I’ll ask him,’ she whispered in a confidential tone and vanished into the adjoining room.

They heard voices coming from the room, and then the man peered out to take a look at who the potential buyers of the egg might be. Beba and Kukla stood modestly beside the counter, waiting. The man did not recognise Beba at first, but then, when he did, he gave a start. Beba was able to read the traces of an inner struggle on his face. He was evidently wondering whether to show that he recognised her, or pretend that he had never seen her before. The sullen-looking man vanished behind the wall with lightning speed just as he had appeared. The results of his inner struggle remained unclear. However, now his raised voice could be heard speaking Russian interspersed with the girl’s indistinct responses in Czech.

‘Sell it, no one buys that crap in any case! That idiot of yours, Karel, will make us a new one! Let the old bags pay twenty thousand! For that amount, for twenty thousand, I’d let the old witch rip me off!’

After a while the pleasant young girl appeared out of the adjoining room, now somewhat pinker in the face, and said:

‘You’re in luck.’

‘How much?’ asked Beba.

‘Twenty thousand,’ the girl spoke cautiously.

‘Does that include transport?’

‘Where to?’

‘To the Grand Hotel.’

‘Oh, but that’s right here! No problem. Are you paying cash or with a credit card?’ the girl asked, still disbelieving.

‘Cash!’ Beba burst out. ‘We’ll be back in a second. You’re not closing yet?’

‘No, you’ve got another full hour yet. I’ll wait for you.’

‘What’s your name?’ asked Kukla.

‘Marlena,’ said the girl.

At that moment the sullen-looking man with wild hair came out of the adjoining room and headed for the door. Despite his evident inner intention of looking neither left nor right, his glance escaped his control and came to rest on Beba. She managed to wave to him.

‘Spassibo, Kotik!’[6] she said sweetly.

What about us? Let’s keep going! In life there’s a lot we can delay, but the tale moves on and cannot stay!

6.

It was already late when two sulky young men from the ‘New Russians’ gallery brought the egg and placed it in Pupa’s suite.

Beba was sprawled wearily in an armchair, filling it entirely with her body like risen dough in a tin. Kukla was striding up and down, her arms folded on her chest. And then she stopped:

‘Well, aren’t we going to open it?’

Beba hauled herself out of the chair and waddled over to the egg. They unlocked it together. The room was filled with the pleasant aroma of fresh pine.

‘Who would have thought it was so spacious!’ said Beba.

‘We’ll have to make sure we buy enough bags of ice in the local supermarket,’ said Kukla drily, closing the egg.

Moths flew in through the open balcony doors into the brightly lit suite.

‘And the boot,’ added Kukla.

‘What boot?’

‘We ought to put Pupa’s boot in with her as well, don’t you think?’

‘Sure, put it in.’

‘I think Pupa would really like it if the boot was cleaned.’

‘We can have it dry-cleaned,’ said Beba, waddling over to the telephone to ring room service. ‘They’ll send someone right up,’ she said and made her way to the door. Beba had had enough for the day. She had no strength for any more words.

When she handed the hotel employee the bag containing a large fur boot, he opened his eyes wide and raised his eyebrows, but the question mark that formed for a moment on his forehead vanished at once, proving him a true hotel professional for whom nothing human is strange. Kukla withdrew to her part of the suite, leaving the door carefully ajar, as though Pupa was still in her room. She went out onto the balcony. The night was warm and soft as plush, and the sky was lit up by an enormous full moon. A barely visible mist rose from the trees, at least that is how it seemed to Kukla. The warmth that had accumulated during the day was evaporating from the leaves. Kukla breathed in the warm, fragrant air. Her nostrils caught the sweet smell of elder flowers. And then the door of the next-door balcony burst suddenly and noisily open and a metallic, tart woman’s voice rent the silence of the night.

‘Why the hell did you close the door? We’ll suffocate in here!’