When I finally scrambled out, the engineer and his assistant couldn’t hold back their laughter.
My trousers were soaked through with brownish liquid manure and stank so horribly that I was no longer fit for any activity among people. I ran into town, crept into the river with my pants, and rinsed them for a long while, but it was no use. In a clothing store, people stepped aside as I approached. I had enough money for only the cheapest shorts. My wife washed my pants at home, then I took them to the cleaners, and finally we pronounced them unusable.
My experience was also unusable because my hero was supposed to be capable of managing complicated situations, and it would be quite unbecoming of him to fall into a cesspool.
*
Michal was three years old, and we were still living with Helena’s parents. The wait for an apartment “allocation” in Prague was around fifteen years. If you joined the co-op and had around thirty thousand crowns (my total salary for almost two years), you might be able to get an apartment four or five years earlier. Another way to get an apartment was through an exchange, but the number of people who wanted to exchange one large flat for two smaller ones was much greater than vice versa.
Because I was on a special (creative) vacation to finish my novel, I had more time to play with Michal. He was at a tender age and unlike me was manually dexterous. He could build elaborate structures out of blocks, and although he sometimes received toys that were too complicated for his age, such as Lego or Merkur construction toys, he always worked with them tenaciously. We often sat for hours fashioning buildings and simple gadgets. Every evening Michal wanted to hear a fairy tale, an oral story rather than a written one if possible.
I invented never-ending tales whose heroes were an awkward and clumsy little puppy, a wise and skillful kitten, and a good-natured horse named Vašek upon whom the pair traveled around the world. The fairy tale continued for a number of years, comprising several thousand installments (not only did my daughter experience them, but also my oldest granddaughter; if I’d written them down, they would have filled more volumes than the celebrated Harry Potter series). Much to my surprise, I managed to think up ever new and usually humorous situations.
The Smíchov Embankment where we lived was ostentatious, but it was not an ideal environment for children. On Sundays, however, we would hike up Petřín Hill. I would take a ball, which we would kick from goal to goal along the way. I kept saying I was making a soccer player out of Michal, but I didn’t mean it seriously. I just loved watching the little fellow try to kick the ball. Helena, however, was not keen on the prospect of her son growing up to be a soccer player and tried to talk me out of my plans.
Only in hindsight does one come to understand that the time spent with one’s children is unique and unrepeatable — one of the most powerful experiences life has to offer. But this time of life is often overshadowed by many other interests and obligations — making money, hunting down things (an apartment), debating, celebrating various anniversaries or successes with friends, traveling (at least in our own country, since we couldn’t go abroad), and finally reaching the misguided conclusion that our children are actually holding us back, and we look for some sort of replacement for ourselves (grandparents in the best case, some sort of apparatus or contrivance in the worst). Before the invention of the computer, the Internet, and the virtual world, I tried to depict this in “The Fairy Tale Machine” and the screenplay Cybernetic Grandmother.
I was no different in my relationship with my offspring and reproached myself for neglecting my novel. The time off I’d been given to finish it was speedily passing by, and I realized I’d never be able to concentrate on my work at home. I started to fear my vacation would run out and I wouldn’t have anything to show for it.
*
I decided to ask the Literary Fund if I could spend at least a month in one of its accommodation facilities.
The people at the fund gladly offered me a room in Dobříš Castle.
Living in a castle seemed a little much to me, but I was assured I would have a pleasant and peaceful environment for my work. The rooms were furnished austerely, and the garden, as everyone pointed out, was a wonderful place for contemplation. The staff quoted a certain poet who’d said that the spirit here hovers low over the paths.
So I packed some clothes, a few notebooks containing notes from my eastern Slovak travels, a book of Hemingway’s short stories (also in Slovak), a bundle of paper containing the first five chapters of my novel, a packet of clean white paper for the rest of it, and a fountain pen along with a bottle of green ink, and headed for the castle.
The kind-looking custodian welcomed me to Dobříš and showed me the way to my room. She gave me the key and informed me that quiet hours were after 10 p.m.
The castle, which the state had appropriated (as the Nazis had before them) from the Colloredo-Mansfeld dynasty and magnanimously donated to writers, was under the administration of the Literary Fund. Thanks to the continuous income it received (a 2 percent royalty for every book or article published), not only could the castle be maintained in decent condition but some modifications could be undertaken as well. One of them was the transformation of the rooms in the front wing into studies.
The tiny rooms were indeed sparsely furnished: desk, chair, armchair, wardrobe, and bed. My windows looked out on a road that wound sharply uphill from the front of the castle and upon which heavy trucks climbed with clamorous effort.
I quickly unpacked my things, pulled out a sheet of paper, and started writing with the utmost resolve. The cars outside started distracting me, so I closed the windows, but I still couldn’t concentrate. I forced myself to read several previous pages of my manuscript to immerse myself in the environment of my hero, but my new alien surroundings would not permit it.
I went downstairs to the porter’s lodge and asked the way to the garden.
All I had to do was cross the courtyard and open the glass doors, and I’d find myself in the park.
The doors were already wide open. A French park spread out before me with carefully tended flowerbeds and yellowish gravel paths, terraces, statues, and a fountain from which stone horses were drinking. It was a scene straight out of a movie, something almost unreal during these Socialist times. Several women were sitting on benches taking the sun. I walked for about an hour around the park, collected a few mushrooms, and tried in vain to concentrate on my story. I climbed the steep forested hillside and set off along a narrow path back to the castle. At one point the trees parted, and I caught sight of the magnificent structure of the castle from a different point of view: the red baroque walls appeared like blazing flames among the green vegetation, and I saw several figures crawling slowly along the yellow park paths like large multicolored beetles. I sat down on a boulder and felt as if I were in the middle of a dream. Soon I would awaken and find myself in a barracks, flea-bitten and hungry, fearing what the day would bring.