“Overslept, did we, Ali?” Alice just nodded a few times. She still didn’t know what to say.
“That’s all right, sweetheart. You don’t have to go to school for the rest of the week. I’ve already talked to your teacher about it.”
“Now give me a kiss,” her daddy said. Alice ran first to him, then turned to her mommy, and carefully gave them each a kiss.
4. A VISION OF HITLER
Dr. Lukavský didn’t have time for the patient right away, so he filled out the forms and admitted him to the unit, but that was it. The patient brought in by the police, pastry chef Marek Svoboda, who called not only the doctor but everyone else, including the patients and orderlies, brother or sister, appeared calm and collected. There was no need to establish a diagnosis yet, the doctor still had time. The man, who introduced himself as Jesus Socrates Amenhotep Hitler though his parents had named him Marek Svoboda, was in the right place, the doctor concluded.
That afternoon he had Mr. Svoboda brought in and asked whether he could explain his new name. The pastry chef fixed his gaze on the doctor.
“I’m not sure you would understand my explanation, brother doctor.”
“First of all,” the doctor said, “I’d like you to call me just ordinary normal Dr. Lukavský.”
“But, brother doctor, doesn’t it comfort you to know that we’re all equal under the sun?” the pastry chef said.
“Mr. Svoboda, please,” the doctor said. Mr. Svoboda paused and the doctor tried again.
“Could you tell me why you changed your name, Mr. Svoboda?”
“Yes, brother doctor, I could,” said the pastry chef. “But first I would ask a brotherly favor, if you could open the window and let some of little brother wind in for us.” The doctor jotted down a note unrelated to Mr. Svoboda in the file open in front of him, laid his pen on the table, stood up, and opened the window a crack. The sound of the wind in the branches of the broad, leafy trees that lined the main road of the hospital complex penetrated the room. The pastry chef stood up, walked to the window, and stared out through the bars.
“How far is it from here to the capital, brother doctor?”
“You mean to Prague?” asked the doctor.
“Yes, brother, I mean precisely that,” said the pastry chef.
“About two and a half hours by car,” said Dr. Lukavský.
“You see, brother, two and a half hours by car, that’s a great distance, and we humans are even more distant from one another than that.”
“What do you mean?” the doctor asked.
“I knew you wouldn’t understand,” the pastry chef said.
“Do you mean the distance in human relationships?”
“I’ve hooked one and now I’m reeling her in,” the pastry chef replied.
“Mr. Svoboda, what’s going on with your wife?” the doctor asked.
“Dear brother doctor, my sister wife left me and all that remains of her is a letter good-bye.”
“Why did she leave you, Mr. Svoboda?”
“She found herself a noble lover, brother doctor,” the pastry chef replied.
“Do you have that letter, Mr. Svoboda?”
“Dear brother doctor, I ate it,” the pastry chef replied.
“Oh, I see,” the doctor said.
“Oh, I see,” the pastry chef repeated. “Now she’s let go and is floating away.”
“Pardon me?” the doctor said. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“Oh, brother doctor, brother doctor. I must reprimand you, for I sense a fraction of impatience in your voice.”
“You’re right, Mr. Svoboda. I am impatient. I have a long shift ahead of me and there are some things I’d like to find out about you.” The pastry chef, still standing at the barred window, ran his hands over his face, as if wiping off a layer of dust, walked back to the table, and sat back down in the chair facing the doctor.
“Why do you call yourself Jesus Socrates Amenhotep Hitler, Mr. Svoboda?”
“I’ve had visions, brother. I’ve had visions.”
“Visions?”
“Yes, brother. Visions.”
“What sort of visions?”
“Woeful, brother, woeful.”
“I’m not sure I understand you, Mr. Svoboda. Could you help me a little, please?”
“I’m doing what I can, brother doctor. With all my strength … with all the strength I can muster.”
“And what are these visions about, brother — I mean, Mr. Svoboda?”
“By all means call me brother, my dear brother doctor,” the pastry chef said with obvious delight. “After all, as you know, here under the sun, the moon and the various comets, we are all equal …”
“Of course we’re all equal,” the doctor said, smiling. “It says so in the constitution,” he added after a pause.
“Ah, how inappropriate, brother doctor. How inappropriate,” the pastry chef said.
“What is inappropriate, Mr. Svoboda?” asked the doctor.
“Inappropriate is inappropriate — that is inappropriate. Being ironic, sarcastic, and quoting a scrap of paper instead of an insight into the human soul, brother.”
“Oh, I see,” the doctor said. “I see,” he repeated. “I apologize if I offended you.”
“Brother doctor, a long road awaits you, a long road. The only ones we can offend are ourselves, not another or a third or fifth or seventh or eleventh or thirteenth or seventeenth …”
“I see, Mr. Svoboda. So tell me about the visions,” the doctor said with recognizably greater emphasis. The pastry chef clasped his hands in front of his face, as if about to pray.
“Each of my names was revealed to me in a vision.”
“Why don’t you tell me about that last name of yours, Hitler.”
“It was a cruel vision, brother doctor. Long and cruel … but mostly cruel.”
“We have time, Mr. Svoboda. Today I’m on the night shift as well.”
“You’re on the night shift, brother, and yet you are beneath neither the stars nor the clouds. How sad, brother, how sad. How shabby and sad your life is. Do you realize that, brother?”
“Certainly,” the doctor said, clearing his throat. “Certainly, yes, but why don’t you tell me something about your vision, Mr. Svoboda? Do you think you could do that?” The pastry chef visibly pondered the question, clasping and unclasping his fingers several times.
“Even wild animals are kinder to each other than people are, remember that, and unfortunately and sadly, I’m no different, so at least I try to be kind to myself.” He paused a moment, then added: “I’ll tell you my vision, but only on one condition, brother doctor. One condition.”
“I can’t promise you anything, Mr. Svoboda,” the doctor said cautiously. “But what condition is that?”
“It’s an absolute condition, actually … yes, yes, absolute,” the pastry chef said. “Either you meet it, or you won’t find out a thing, brother doctor.”
“Look now, Mr. Svoboda. I don’t think you can impose any conditions. After all, I’m not putting any on you.”
“Aren’t bars conditions, little brother?” the pastry chef said.
“Mr. Svoboda. Now, you know—”
“My condition is … absolute and isn’t open to discussion,” the pastry chef interrupted. “If you want to hear the vision, the image of my truth, may the universe be blamed, which is the same thing as praised, you mustn’t interrupt me. Otherwise, you just won’t find out. Which will neither benefit nor harm the cosmos. But don’t try to bargain with me! Even I deserve as much pitiful respect from your white coat, which needs a washing. I wouldn’t even dare roll dough in such a coat. Ugh, ugh, ugh!”