“What’s new, partners?” asks Franta Psoria, a former miner from the depths who later ran off to the carousels, lived with a Gypsy woman and got a tattoo on his left shoulder.
Those listening from the Liars’ Bench know that whether it’s from the pit, from the fair or from the funeral of a Gypsy baron, it will in all cases be huge, as Franta Psoria is King — King of the Liars’ Bench, chosen by all.
The King smiles, takes a sip of beer, makes himself good in the mouth and talks. The men don’t make a sound.
In comparison with the fables of Franta, their own lives shrink as if for microscopic observation. Franta’s aware of this; he knows where his only wealth lies. He talks about the times he went down the hole as a pit foreman, and how there they had such a beautiful and full-figured bookkeeper that once, as she stood in the yard with her hands behind her back, he didn’t approach her from behind to cover her eyes and ask “guess who?” like some Gymnasium student, but rather thrust his penis right into her hand. And in front of everyone she dragged him just like he was to the director, who deducted his bonuses and delivered the appropriate reprimand.
“But, gentlemen, one easily accepts the deduction of bonuses, and the reprimand along with it,” Franta Psoria shouts with laughter, “when a goddess forgets to let go!”
The men laugh and slap Franta on the back. Well, some people have all the luck in the adventure of life.
“A beer for the King,” they order for Franta.
This is what he had: a mineshaft, youth, women, carousel, Gypsy, freedom, and a tattoo. The tattoo stayed the longest. But even this eventually left him, as had the shaft, youth, women, carousel, Gypsy, and freedom.
He got such an idiotic disease: psoriasis it’s called, and it peels the skin the way it flayed his tattoo.
“Naturally,” Franta Psoria turns to me, “I’m not going to tell the whole city about it!”
And he shouldn’t!
He is a king only when he’s a Liar.
AN APPEARANCE, KOSHER
“A love holds me like the Jewish faith,” a man with blue eyes begins his story from the Liars’ Bench. “You don’t believe me? Listen, then, to the story of Ráchel Šmidtová, a lawyer from the firm of Golem & Partner, of Maiselova Street in Prague. It’s been many years since I studied law in Prague. More accurately, in the sixties. Well, in ’68 I had to finish my studies prematurely… but that’s another story; it has nothing to do with love.
“I was then still a shy young man, a virgin who’d never been kissed, when my classmate Ráchel Šmidtová invited me to a lecture given by Rabbi Glick at the Jewish Town Hall on Maiselova.
“Well, men, you know it from Appollinaire, don’t you? It’s the one with the tower with the clock whose hands go backward, because time, flying forward, is only time lost, a time that approaches death, whereas Jewish time recedes always to birth.
“But back to Miss Šmidtová… Something about her got under my skin, but the whole time I thought it was only the prick of the peaks of her bosom. It’s only now that I realize it was her Jewish star. She got me spiritually somewhere that would take me years of climbing to reach, if I would’ve had to do it all on my own.
“This was accomplished by only a single lecture from Rabbi Glick. She got me there, where the body and sex begin.
“I was a bit apprehensive when I entered the lecture hall, full of white chairs. Sitting on the chairs were members of Prague’s Jewish community: a wonderful people of an olive complexion, with hooked noses and dark hair. The women were so beautiful that you went cross-eyed. And the men wore their trousers with suspenders, and had on yarmulkes — as if they came from the time of Paradise, before the pogroms. They were running backward, too, just like the hands of the clock.
“I tell you, with my freckles, fair hair and blue eyes, I looked like the pope in a synagogue, but they saw me differently.
“I didn’t look like them on the outside, and so they seemed to believe that my Jewishness was hidden within. And the hidden soul of a man is for the Jews more important than the crust of his skin.
“Then Rabbi Glick began. He talked about a return to the faith. He spoke in English, with such an impossible accent that I couldn’t understand a word.
“Under his English words rattled something Hebrew, maybe Yiddish, maybe even Adam, the first man, before Yahweh gave him the gift of speech so he could be understood by his first wife, Lilith, which didn’t quite work out.
“But my classmate Ráchel Šmidtová understood him, and from his every rattling she managed to translate the right words to Czech. She was from Adam’s rib, so she understood.
“ ‘Zahlen Sie, bitte, Milena Jesenská, noch einmal, noch einmal, once more, please, translate for me — my pillow to Czech,’ one of Kafka’s poems, written to Milenka in a letter of May 30, 1920, came to my mind.
“It was in that same letter that Kafka described his loneliness.
“ ‘Why, when looking at strangers, am I looking at something strange? Even when I’m acquainted, nothing changes.’
“But I’m digressing, and you don’t want to be kept in suspense.
“Rabbi Glick was telling a story for assimilated Jews. And that in every one of us, maybe even in Hitler, there is something assimilated, though we may have committed the most horrible atrocities. His words were taking root in my heart; green sprouts budding, leaves bursting forth, blossoms emanating from my breast.
“The story was about a young man named Aaron, who was being raised in a Tsar’s cadet school in Russia, as such was the practice of the Russian Orthodox: this was the way they decimated the Jews, taking them when they were still young and re-educating them to become soldiers of the Tsar, so that they would never raise weapons for the cause of their fathers, as did Samson with the long hair.
“Aaron hadn’t retained anything of his Jewish faith. He didn’t observe the holidays or the Sabbath; he didn’t read the Talmud or Torah; he didn’t know what it meant to be a Jew.
“One day, on leave in Moscow, Aaron met the Tsar.
“He didn’t know, to tell you the truth, that he was dealing with a Tsar, as the man didn’t have it written on his forehead, and what’s more was in disguise, as he liked to appear, to mingle with his subjects, to get to know them.
“Because it was Russia, Aaron and the Tsar began to compete in the drinking of vodka.
“Who out-drinks who and who falls under the table.
“They drank. Nu vot!
“They drank heroically. As the empty shots piled up, the Tsar was still ordering more. But a Tsar is a Tsar, he can buy himself a whole Lake Ladoga of vodka, a whole Baikal of the stuff, an entire Caspian Sea — Aaron ran out of cash.
“So Aaron got up, because he wasn’t falling under the table just yet, and went to the innkeeper to hock his saber.
“ ‘Here you are,’ he said to him. ‘Here’s a finger of our Batushka Tsar with which he shakes the world. How much vodka will it get me?’
“The innkeeper measured the saber with his eyes and said: ‘For Batushka’s talon, I’ll give you a whole flask — let me be the loser!’
“Aaron gave a cheer, grabbed the bottle and went to the Tsar. Bum, he resolutely set the bottle down on the table. He didn’t lose. He was lighter only his saber.
“But wait, gentlemen. Three days later when he had gotten over his hangover, the Tsar was stricken by a thought: what kind of an army is it that’s able to squander its weapons? An army without weapons is nichevo, nothing!!