The Drowning Of A Goldfish by Lidmila; Sováková Page A

recording. Selections would wait. My file would take shape much later.
    With a short, gasping whistle, the train spits us out on a little stop, lost in the fields, encrusted in a dirty snow.
    Rudolf’s father appears through the billowing steam. He fixes our luggage to his bicycle and peddles away. We follow, trotting along a narrow path, in a plain defined by abruptly protruding mountains in the distance.
    The wind, a greedy leech, invades my coat and clings to my neck; its grasping suckers lift up the borders of my shawl.
    Suddenly, the clouds are swept away; the icy rays of a frozen sun slice my cheek with razor sharpness. I shiver and have a burning desire for warmth.
    With a little flower-bed by the road and a sizeable vegetable garden at the rear, the house is brand new and built of bricks. The tiled roof warmly reflects the sun; the mellow thatched roofs belonging to the past … and the poor.
    The retired cop Velenský is a rich man. His new wife supplied the house and the garden, a real gold mine for those who know how to exploit it. Not one inch is wasted. Lettuce, radishes and beetroots are grown, according to the season. Everything will be traded at the market in the neighboring town.
    The retired cop Velenský is a resourceful man.
    The communists took away his fields and gave him a handsome pension.
    Is he not a combatant for the new order? A fighter of the first hour against the German invaders? A man of order, useful to every regime?
    The retired cop Velenský beams with satisfaction. To do one’s duty does not imply to ignore on which side one’s bread is buttered.
    â€œWhatever the government, be in accordance with it, Rudolf. Follow and be obedient; their head is bigger than yours. They will tell you in time what is required from you,” he advises his son.
    We are seated at the table. The kitchen is dark. To prevent the heat from escaping, the windows are nailed and the frames are stuffed with yellowed newspaper.
    A bare bulb casts a meager, dirty light on the plastic tablecloth. The air is heavy, greasy, and sour … just like the food that we are being served.
    The retired cop Velenský is the very image of a miser. His compulsive greed is at the core of his torture; it squeezes his heart, it consumes his brain, it eats away his soul.
    Even fields are no longer a sure value! Where shall one put one’s money in these troubled times?!
    In cold sweat, Velenský takes his money to the bank. Is it secure there?! Will he not lose it?!
    He calculates; he speculates and looks around. The comrades, are they doing the same? The government will certainly not deceive its cherished followers, its very support, its own defense! With them it stands, without them it falls.
    Some comrades buy houses—the stupid ones. The clever ones confiscated them from the “enemies of the working class” when there were still some houses left. The government will not touch the comrades’ private property! Only a fool will cut off the branch on which he is sitting.
    What a shame that one is allowed only a single house, whose proportions have, furthermore, to correspond to the size of one’s family—exception to the rules being gladly granted to prominent Party members. Unfortunately, this is not the case of the retired cop Velenský!
    â€œMoney is so difficult to spend,” grudges Velenský. In fact, it is hardly needed. Food is grown in the garden, a pig is slaughtered, salted, smoked … plenty to eat throughout the year. To drink, there are apples for cider and prunes for “slivowitz.” Good clothes are saved for the church on Sundays and for the occasional National Committee meetings. “And they last so long! Impossible to wear them out!” grumbles the retired cop.
    â€œJust let those city queers spare us from their culture, seeing silly places, movies, concerts, plays! We have a radio, even a television! We know what to think! We shall stay