Rambling On: An Apprentice’s Guide to the Gift of the Gab

One day, in the middle of April it was, Lothar came to Kersko, unannounced, but jubilant, and at once he told Pavel and Olina that he’d made a killing on the stock exchange and was going to buy a Mercedes, a diesel Mercedes, a white one, and Pavel said that if Lothar bought himself a white Mercedes, Olina would buy herself a white wedding dress, and the day that Lothar came home with a white Merc, he’d come home with a white bride. And with white April snow coming down, the two friends were so happy and in such a jolly mood that they drank all the beer in the house, and with their thirst rising to ever greater heights with all that joy, they decided to ride over to the Keeper’s Lodge for some more beer and then bring more bottles home for the night, in case they got thirsty in the night, or, failing that, in the morning. So they rode out into the darkness, a darkness adorned with white flakes of snow the size of postage stamps, Pavel being pushed along by Olina and Lothar propelling his wheelchair into the blizzard with great blows from his gloved hands, each with a lighted torch between their teeth, and so over the bumps and through the spring mud they rode out of their side avenue onto the concrete road, and then they rode on with their heads down, forging through the blizzard in their fur hats, until they glimpsed a pink light issuing from the pub windows down the tunnel along which the spring snow was coming down, thick and wet. And as they grew near, the friends yelled with delight and thirst and the vision of the cosy pub, where the stove would radiate a great heat, and they revelled in the prospect and drove all the faster as if on the final straight at the Heidelberg Olympics. Then, in the pink light, they shook off the thick blanket of snow that covered them, wiped their faces and dashed away the topping of snow that had built up on their fur hats… and Olina pulled first Lothar, the heavy ninety-kilogram Lothar, up the six, snow-edged steps onto the patio, then Pavel, few others were any good at it — going up to the first step, turning 180°, then in reverse and with a mighty jerk at each step, dragging the man in his nickel-plated wheelchair up onto the patio, from where it was on the level through the doorway. I was sitting in the pub, the landlord, Mr Novák was in a lousy mood, again, treating us three drinkers as if he’d never seen us before, I sat there tight-lipped and sipped my beer, to which the ignominy had given an added bitterness, Franta Vorel was sitting by the stove and dreaming of the beautiful Hungarian girl who, years back, had combed his hair for him in the Start inn in Starý Vestec, a Hungarian who’d never seen Franta before, nor he her, but out of the blue she’d started combing his hair and then told him she would kidnap him and take him back with her to Budapest in her car, since when he’d lived that dream, and now he was sitting there and dreaming about his glorious kidnapping to Budapest, Mr Procházka, sprawled out, was sleeping as soundly as in the dead of night, like on any other occasion, around nine he’d been overcome by the sweet sleep that granted him his health, which shone from his red face in the droplets under his nose. And suddenly the door flew open and the white snow flew in, that wet April snow, Mr Novák was holding on to the beer tap and was as astonished as I was, watching as Pavel came riding through the door, with Olina pushing along behind, steered towards a table and repeatedly wiped his wet, cold brow, then Olina went out and came back with Lothar, who was aglow with elation and hope, and the friends rubbed their hands and ordered some beers. But Mr Novák said in a strange voice: “I’ve just run out.” And the friends stared ahead and their smiles froze, stuck to their ever-hopeful faces, and so Pavel said: “All right, we’ll have some bottled, to take away…,” but Mr Novák glanced towards a corner that the patrons couldn’t see and said in a strange voice: “I’m out of bottled as well, delivery never made it…,” so Pavel said, “We’ll take a bottle of wine…,” but Mr Novák, heading for the doorway, said: “We’re closing,” and he took hold of the keys, a bunch of keys, and rattled them, jangling them like the last bell before closing time, closing, closing… and he opened the door, and Olina, red and rubicund, pushed first Lothar, then Pavel back out onto the patio, the white snow was falling even harder now than before, flakes the size of postage stamps came hurtling into the hallway, and a draught, a furious draught banged the pub door to, and Franta Vorel went on sighing sweetly beside the stove, dreaming on about the beautiful Hungarian girl combing his hair, and Mr Procházka went on sleeping the healthy sleep with which he restored the vigour needed for the bike ride that he would shortly undertake to return home through the forest to the village where his cottage stood. Mine host Mr Novák went back to his beer taps and drew me a pint, and mentally I rose to my feet and shouted: “Have you no shame? Have you no shame, you’re a barbarian, turning customers away like that, and them in such a sorry state, I shan’t be coming here again, I’ll have you know, you monster, you’ll never see me in here again, and if you do, it’ll be while you’re away, because who else but you could do anything so shameful, you, you, you…,” in my mind I couldn’t find the words, and when Mr Novák set the beer down in front of me, I said aloud: “How much do I owe you…,” and quickly downed the beer, got up to go, pulled on my fur overcoat and rammed my cap on low over my forehead, and Mr Novák asked in parting: “Will you be in tomorrow?” And I said I would and dashed out into the blizzard and charged down the road until I caught up with the two wheelchairs by New Meads, still lighting their snow-covered way with the torches that Pavel and Lothar held in their mouths, and I offered to walk ahead of them and light the way, and I took a torch and strode ahead of the wheelchairs and lit the way, and I wanted to launch into a lament and a stream of abuse at the publican, but the bright and breezy voice of Lothar was yelling: “It’s good you’re planning a trip to Italy, Pavel, stop by my place on the way and we’ll pop into Munich for a pint or two, the choice’ll be yours, best if you leave it till the autumn when the beer tents go up, that’s quite something, you’ll see,” Lothar jubilated, “tents for four thousand people, Löwenbräu tents and Mattheus Bräu tents and Pschorr Bräu tents and Augustiner Bräu tents, and brass bands everywhere and thousands of people and white puddings and roast ham hock, which they brush with beer to make the crackling nice and crunchy! I’ll take you there, or if you come in the summer, we’ll find a beergarden, all the pubs in Munich have gardens big enough for thousands of people, the one at Augustiner Bräu alone can hold two thousand! Or suppose I took you for a Kreuzberg beer? It comes from a Dominican monastery that brews a mighty fine lager! Yes, that’s where I’ll take you, there’s always singing in their garden and if the patrons start singing too loud, a monk in a white cowl comes along carrying a sign that says: ‘The brothers are at prayer, please keep your voices down.’ That’s where I’ll take you…” Pavel shook his little arms about in delight, quivering with excitement, “Yes, yes, yes, great idea, I can’t wait, but tomorrow I’ll take you to one of ours where they’ve got Pilsner Urquell — now which pubs have got few enough steps for us to get our wheelchairs up? And get to the toilets…” And Lothar interrupted Pavel, “We don’t have to worry about the toilet any more, I’ve brought you the thing I use, you just fix it over your member the way you would a condom and down by your feet there’s a flask with a tube that goes into it and you can carry on drinking for hours and only empty it down the toilet later, it’s an English patent, I’ve got one in the car for you… so where to tomorrow then?” Pavel got to thinking amid the falling snow, I walked ahead with my eyes narrowed, but behind me I heard his ecstatic voice, as blithesome as a lark in spring… “Best thing would be to go to Sojkas’, there’s only one step there, three at the Pilsner place… we could manage that, or we could try the Two Cats, there’s only one tiny step there, aw, to hell with it, I’ll take you to Pinkas’, there there’s no steps at all, and the staff know me. There, that’s that sorted out! You’ll take care of Munich, and this week I’ll see to the Staropramen… what did you say was the name of that Dominican monastery where they do such a good brew?” “It’s in Bavaria, on a clifftop well beyond Munich, the Kreuzberg…,” Lothar’s gleeful voice roared “So you’re off to Italy, and will you be seeing Bibi?” Lothar asked, and Pavel enthused: “Yes, I always look in on him, ever since we met at the rehabilitation centre in Kladruby, did you know he also married a nurse? That she helps him into his wheelchair? I’ll be stopping there, in Milan, and his mother always makes me — you’d have to taste it to believe it, it’s got to have all kinds of meat in it, like having the meat of six different fish to make a bouillabaisse, well this dish, it’s called, and no one can make one as good as Bibi’s mother, it’s called Spaghetti alla Bolognese, that’s what she makes for me, but listen, Lothar, you’ve had holidays in Italy, I’ve got a map at home, we’ll make a cuppa and put some of your Kentucky whiskey in it and you can show me all the most wonderful places in Italy, in your own view like, and taking account of my wheelchair as well, okay?” And Lothar exclaimed: “Sure, my friend, we’ll work out a honeymoon trip for you, we’ll fix you a beautiful itinerary, a bit off the beaten track, little country towns, and wine and food everywhere, a honeymoon away from those commercial packages…” And I strode on into the snow, and, happening to turn my face away from the direction of the buffeting blizzard, I spotted, in one of the side avenues, a Volga parked, with the police commandant leaning against it, lost in thought, just as he always popped up, so he popped up now, whenever he wasn’t expected, up he popped, again he shone his torch, not on his medals, but on his forehead, his fur-trimmed cap with its glittering red star… and then he came up quietly and said quietly: “Your ID cards please, sirs…,” and he signalled with his torch that we were to follow him to his Volga patrol car, then he took one ID card after another and handed them back, having inspected them in the shelter of the car, holding them through the open window to protect them from the snowflakes. “Thank you,” he said, and as he returned Lothar’s passport he asked: “How come you speak such good Czech?” And Lothar said: “How come? Obvious, I went to school here, I’m a former citizen of Czechoslovakia, I used to wrestle for Chomutov…” “That’s all right then,” said the commandant and went on: “But your Czech being so good?” And in his quiet voice, beyond which you could hear the snow rustling in the branches of the trees, landing quietly on the roadway onto the layer of snow that already lay there ankle-deep, Lothar spoke: “But I grew up among Czech boys, I went to school with Czech boys, see? Can we go now?” The commandant placed a hand on Lothar’s shoulder and said quietly: “Yes, everything’s in order… but I can’t get my head round how good your Czech is, and the Opel parked over there, is that yours?” Lothar rode off, turned and said: “Yes, it’s mine, I’m trying to sell it, it’s for sale…” And I shone the torch to show the way, followed by the sound of the wheelchairs’ tyres carving through the snow-covered road, no one had gone that way yet, we were advancing down a road pure and unsullied by boot or tyre, each of us relishing the mystique of first footfall and tyrefall on the lying snow, through which no one had walked or ridden before us… And from far behind came the voice of the commandant: “And what are you going to buy?” Lothar put his hands to his mouth and shouted: “A white Mercedes, white as this snow…,” and we listened out, but the policeman just emitted a sigh… and then we were silent, thinking perhaps of the policeman, who, leaning against his Volga, was staring silently into the tumbling snow, maybe silently relishing the descent of the snow that added charm to his time on duty, just as, in the summer months, he would relish the scents wafting across New Meads in the night and watch as the late moon rose… We said good night at the parting of the ways and the two friends were shivering with cold and a longing to be back indoors, in the warmth of the stove, there to spread a big book of Italy out on the table and draw in and map out the white honeymoon route for Pavel and Olina, once Lothar had bought his white Mercedes. For some little while I stood and looked at the white house with its lights on and saw a light go on on the stairs that led up to the study in the loft, I saw Lothar disappear from his wheelchair and then I saw him, like when soldiers crawl through hostile territory, haul himself up with his powerful arms one step at a time, dragging his powerless legs behind him… and then Pavel the same, by his elbows… and I saw how they both had to pause half-way, how though the trip to the pub hadn’t got the better of them, those twelve stairs had, and they had to summon all their strength, turn and turn about, to haul themselves up to the top. And, with all the lights on in the white house, the two friends were surely talking about the white honeymoon trip, about all the world’s beautiful breweries and beautiful beerhalls, about a white Mercedes, while Olina went to bed and fell asleep at once, her fatigue permitting her to dream about a white dress and wedding flowers and her wedding breakfast.