me any pleasure. I kept it on my desk and used it as a paperweight . I felt ambivalent about it, and though I could not part with it nor would I wear it either although it was much more precise than the watch I’d inherited from my great-grandfather.
Just three weeks ago my concierge told me two tramps had come by looking for me, an older sort and a very handsome, very young one. They spoke in a foreign language. A strange feeling stirred in me. I was very happy. Who else could it be but the watchmaker and his Jaroslaus? Was he really his ownflesh and blood, as the poor fool had believed so fervently ? On the other hand I had a grim foreboding, the cause of which is obvious. I now expected their arrival anytime which led me to neglect even my business affairs. Finally they arrived, three days after their first visit. But what a change in the appearance of my friend—I almost felt moved to call him this. He was just skin and bone, his eyes hollow, his clothes dusty, his hands and face covered in dirt, every inch a tramp.
The child was the exact opposite: an enchantingly beautiful boy, large-eyed and slender, the spitting image of his father. He was a little pale, and his cheeks may have been rounder in Prague, but his clothes were clean, and his little hands, the nails neatly clipped, were white and smooth like a girl’s. He was wearing a small gold ring of which he seemed overly proud. He was quite at ease and held his hand out to me as if we were old friends. I ran down to the concierge straight away to order food for both of them. The father’s eyes shone longingly, but he only ate a little. The child, however, didn’t lift his beautifully lashed blue eyes once, but wolfed down his meal just like any child who has not seen a well-laden table for a while. It was evening and while we were going for a walk the warm-hearted concierge prepared the guests’ bedding from her own supply of pillows and sheets. The childwalked proudly at his father’s side, rubbing up against him like a cat. He did the same to me, and later back in the building also to the old concierge who was not known for her fondness of children but had devoted her heart to orphaned cats instead. Soon after we sent the child to bed. He obeyed without any argument. So good was his upbringing. I had rarely encountered such a charming personality which I suspect he had inherited from his mother. And yet I didn’t particularly warm to him. I told myself I was getting old. Age often brings distrust. Why then did I trust the father? He was strangely taciturn. All I knew was he had crossed the Czech-German border on foot and the weather had been pleasant. What about the second border between Germany and France which was even more treacherous to cross? He looked at me innocently—as two people would who have nothing to fear from one another—and rubbed together his thumb and index finger, alluding that it had been a costly endeavour. It seemed he had entered from Luxembourg.
Why this pointless diversion? Why subject himself to another border crossing? I didn’t probe. I was aware that former prison inmates often maintained connections to the criminal underworld, if only to find out about the best routes, escape points and borders, which had gained considerable significance recently. Now he lived with me and I finally knew his name,Bedřich Kohoutek. I had to remember to register him at the police commission, but he asked me to hold off for a few days. I discussed the matter with the concierge, and the good woman, usually a stickler for official regulations regarding her lodgers, was so enchanted by the cherub Jaroslaus, that she agreed to wait a few days longer. The child had soon picked up some French and could communicate far better than his father; taking advantage of the lovely weather he played outside with children of all ages in the street or the small park nearby. He always returned on time. He was so carefree, so cheerful—I never saw him looking
Just three weeks ago my concierge told me two tramps had come by looking for me, an older sort and a very handsome, very young one. They spoke in a foreign language. A strange feeling stirred in me. I was very happy. Who else could it be but the watchmaker and his Jaroslaus? Was he really his ownflesh and blood, as the poor fool had believed so fervently ? On the other hand I had a grim foreboding, the cause of which is obvious. I now expected their arrival anytime which led me to neglect even my business affairs. Finally they arrived, three days after their first visit. But what a change in the appearance of my friend—I almost felt moved to call him this. He was just skin and bone, his eyes hollow, his clothes dusty, his hands and face covered in dirt, every inch a tramp.
The child was the exact opposite: an enchantingly beautiful boy, large-eyed and slender, the spitting image of his father. He was a little pale, and his cheeks may have been rounder in Prague, but his clothes were clean, and his little hands, the nails neatly clipped, were white and smooth like a girl’s. He was wearing a small gold ring of which he seemed overly proud. He was quite at ease and held his hand out to me as if we were old friends. I ran down to the concierge straight away to order food for both of them. The father’s eyes shone longingly, but he only ate a little. The child, however, didn’t lift his beautifully lashed blue eyes once, but wolfed down his meal just like any child who has not seen a well-laden table for a while. It was evening and while we were going for a walk the warm-hearted concierge prepared the guests’ bedding from her own supply of pillows and sheets. The childwalked proudly at his father’s side, rubbing up against him like a cat. He did the same to me, and later back in the building also to the old concierge who was not known for her fondness of children but had devoted her heart to orphaned cats instead. Soon after we sent the child to bed. He obeyed without any argument. So good was his upbringing. I had rarely encountered such a charming personality which I suspect he had inherited from his mother. And yet I didn’t particularly warm to him. I told myself I was getting old. Age often brings distrust. Why then did I trust the father? He was strangely taciturn. All I knew was he had crossed the Czech-German border on foot and the weather had been pleasant. What about the second border between Germany and France which was even more treacherous to cross? He looked at me innocently—as two people would who have nothing to fear from one another—and rubbed together his thumb and index finger, alluding that it had been a costly endeavour. It seemed he had entered from Luxembourg.
Why this pointless diversion? Why subject himself to another border crossing? I didn’t probe. I was aware that former prison inmates often maintained connections to the criminal underworld, if only to find out about the best routes, escape points and borders, which had gained considerable significance recently. Now he lived with me and I finally knew his name,Bedřich Kohoutek. I had to remember to register him at the police commission, but he asked me to hold off for a few days. I discussed the matter with the concierge, and the good woman, usually a stickler for official regulations regarding her lodgers, was so enchanted by the cherub Jaroslaus, that she agreed to wait a few days longer. The child had soon picked up some French and could communicate far better than his father; taking advantage of the lovely weather he played outside with children of all ages in the street or the small park nearby. He always returned on time. He was so carefree, so cheerful—I never saw him looking
Similar Books
