I

A Spot of Trouble with Painting

Dr Vlach’s Theory

A Villa with a Summer Terrace

Grandfather Receives an Unexpected Visitor

Aunt Kateřina’s Honeymoon and Milouš’s Culinary Experiments

After our suspenseful summer adventures aboard the houseboat and the expedition from Grandfather’s country house, I returned to my bachelor existence in Mrs Suchánková’s flat – a move which, I regret to say, did nothing to improve my relations with Barbara, otherwise known as Miss Terebová, who, as I supposed, had quietly slipped out of my life.

Having thus resigned myself to the comforts of routine, I resumed my habits. Chief among these was my regular visit to a café where I could reflect upon my life’s decisions in peace and, above all, be spared the calamity of having to brew my own coffee.

Besides, my household had sunk into temporary chaos owing to the fact that I had rashly decided to improve my rooms by having them painted. The painters, after three days of leaving their brushes in tea-cups and their boots in my corridor, solemnly announced that the work, which was meant to last a week, would require no fewer than three. I suspected they meant months, and had half a mind to ask whether I should also arrange their Christmas goose.

It was one such afternoon, as I sat brooding in the café, that I encountered Dr Vlach. He was at his usual table, stirring his coffee with the air of a man who had just solved the riddle of human existence but intended to keep the discovery strictly to himself lest others envy him. On seeing me, he beckoned with the grave authority of a man inviting a moth into the candlelight.

“Well, young man, how goes the battle?” he enquired, once I had taken my seat and ordered my customary coffee.

“Tell me, Doctor,” I said, “is it normal for three days of painting to turn into a month-long siege? I fear my painters have decided to winter in my flat.”

Dr Vlach stroked his beard and smiled. “Ah yes. House painters form a curious social stratum. They are men who sing while they work – a pleasant habit, until one discovers their entire repertoire consists of two songs, both sung excruciatingly off-key.”

“In fact,” he added serenely, “I am preparing a lecture on the subject for the coming congress of psychiatrists.”

“On painters of rooms?” I asked, astonished.

“Not precisely.” He smiled again – the sort of smile that suggested he had invented both the problem and its solution merely to amuse himself.

“You see, Jiří, your difficulty is essentially philosophical.” And with that, he launched once more into his celebrated theory of inherited cave-instincts. According to him, there exist several categories of mankind.

The first consists of those who live in caves and are perfectly content there. Darkness, damp, and the comforting monotony of stone walls give them peace. Nothing disturbs them because they have never known anything else. Into this category, Dr Vlach was pleased to place me.

Then there is the second category. These too inhabit the cave, but only as much as is absolutely necessary. They spend the rest of their time ranging over meadows and forests, indulging in impractical or dangerous pursuits. Here, Dr Vlach placed himself, though why he considered it a badge of honour I cannot imagine.

At this point I thought his taxonomy exhausted, but he raised an eyebrow and asked, “And what of Saturnin?” Not waiting for my answer, he proceeded: “Saturnin is a special case. He long ago built his own house beyond the mountains, and now amuses himself by dragging cave-dwellers into it without their even noticing.”

Dr Vlach nodded with the air of a man who had at last touched the heart of the matter.

“I cannot fathom,” he continued, “why you returned to your cave at all – especially after your nautical and mountaineering exploits this summer. It looked for a moment as though you had stepped out from the shadow of the rock walls — at least symbolically.”

“Apparently I merely went out for a breath of fresh air,” I replied, “and returned to fetch my hat.”

He chuckled, then asked: “And what is Saturnin doing nowadays?”

“Saturnin insists on checking whether the painters have accidentally bricked up my bookcase – a possibility that troubles me more than a little, particularly since I once received a reference from his former employer beginning with the words: ‘If you are considering engaging Mr Saturnin, be assured it is not a question of whether something unusual will happen, but merely what precisely it will be.’”

I laid aside my coffee to avoid spraying it across the tablecloth while relating the story that accompanied this testimonial.

Mr X — as Saturnin respectfully called his former master in their correspondence — had departed for Italy on a three-week tour to gather inspiration, order boots in Naples, and succumb to sentiment in Venice. Before leaving, he entrusted Saturnin with a modest task: to supervise the remodelling of his villa, specifically the addition of a winter garden and the refurbishment of the bathroom.

Saturnin bowed gravely. “Remodelling, sir? Entirely under my direction. Trust in my aesthetic feeling and sense of practicality.”

Thus began the work.

Day One: Saturnin sent the masons home, explaining that they lacked the proper hammer “for a task worthy of a Roman aqueduct.”

Day Four: He engaged an operatic tenor to rehearse arias in the garden, so as to test the acoustics of the new glass wall.

Day Eight: He ordered an entire supporting wall removed, since it “interfered with the view of the sunrise.” When the structural engineer fainted, Saturnin revived him with strong tea and remarked, “Do not be prejudiced, sir. Leonardo da Vinci never had planning permission either.”

Day Eleven: Instead of the ordinary bathtub, he installed a wooden tub from a Finnish sauna. When neighbours enquired what had become of the traditional bath, Saturnin replied: “When Marcus Aurelius bathed after battle, it was never in an enamelled oval contraption on clawed feet. And we are, after all, a Roman civilisation.”

Day Fifteen: The villa boasted two winter gardens (“symmetry, sir!”), walls in the style of Moorish baths, and underfloor heating operated by the pedals of a bicycle. When the plumber protested that none of this made sense, Saturnin presented him with a book on cubism and remarked: “You must accept that the world ceased being linear some time ago.”

Day of the Master’s Return: Mr X found a Japanese lady watering bonsai in the drawing-room, a pianist playing jazz beneath the pergola, and a dog being served dinner in a silver bowl. The bathroom taps ran tea, the cellar contained a bookshop, and a parrot in the bedroom was quoting Seneca.

As for Saturnin, he stood on the veranda with his hands behind his back and said: “Sir, I ventured to make a few slight alterations. But as Pliny says: In varietate concordia.” (Note to the reader: Pliny almost certainly never said this.)

Mr X, it seems, merely nodded resignedly and muttered: “Well… so long as the roof doesn’t leak.”

The reference concluded: “Employ him, if you are not afraid of novelties. And if you do not mind falling in love with your house all over again.”

“That is indeed reassuring,” said Dr Vlach with a smile. “And what of your Grandfather? I recall that after the summer he and Saturnin undertook the noble work of repairing the damage inflicted upon literature by irresponsible authors.”

The work of Grandfather and Saturnin bore curious fruit. One afternoon Grandfather sat in his favourite armchair, sipping tea and gazing out upon the sluggish river beneath the garden. It was one of those peaceful afternoons when one feels that the world is governed by sensible rules and everything has its rightful place.

This illusion was shattered by the sharp clang of the doorbell. Saturnin went to answer and presently ushered in Mr Dubský, the factory owner. Dubský entered, bearing in one hand a box of cigars and in the other a hat, which he seemed unable to decide whether to put on or take off, and therefore did both at once.

“Director,” he began somewhat theatrically, as he settled opposite Grandfather, “I have come to correct certain scandalous tales circulated about me. And since good cigars promote calm discussion, I have brought a small offering.”

Grandfather received the gift politely and bade him continue.

Dubský cleared his throat. “As you know, there circulates a story in which I am depicted as a ruthless father who sacrificed his daughter Olga upon the altar of financial advantage by marrying her to the son of banker Wild. Worse still – that I was caught in this shameful act by my accountant, Mr Sláma, who crushed me morally!”

Grandfather nodded. “Yes, I have heard of it. They say Mr Sláma denounced you as a villain and caused your cigar smoke to waver in panic.”

Dubský scowled. “Nonsense! There were no cries, no fists on tables! The truth was far calmer, and – if I may say so – dignified.”

“And how was it then?” asked Grandfather.

Dubský straightened. “Ivan Sláma is a conscientious accountant, but in private life he is… let us say, awkward. When he called on me, he resembled less a champion of justice than a man who had caught his coat in the door on leaving home and doubted whether he would ever free it again.”

Grandfather smiled. “And what did he actually say?”

Dubský hesitated. “That is just the point. He said nothing. He attempted to, but in his agitation he sat upon the tail of his coat, and instead of a fiery speech he produced only a strangled grunt. I thought at first that something had stuck in his throat, and I reached for a glass of water. At last he floundered and stammered: ‘I… I… protest!’”

“And your response?” asked Grandfather.

“To be frank, I was confused,” said Dubský. “I enquired what precisely he opposed, but before he could catch his breath, he attempted to drive home his point by leaning an elbow on the table – and missed. He toppled forward and his nose met my ashtray with unexpected force. Thus ended our debate.”

Grandfather stroked his moustache. “So in fact there was no great quarrel?”

“None whatever!” declared Dubský. “My daughter Olga married Ladislav Wild of her own choice, for she loves him. I plotted nothing, I schemed nothing, and I was certainly not overthrown by an accountant who habitually overthrows himself by catching his fingers in doors.”

Grandfather tapped the cigar box. “In that case, my dear friend, I consider the matter settled. And I trust these cigars will console me for the discovery that reality is less dramatic than literature.”

Dubský laughed, seized his hat, and rose. “Precisely. And should anyone write another tale about me, may they at least portray me as a man of steady nerves and excellent taste in cigars!”

With that he took his leave.

Dr Vlach chuckled and rubbed his beard. “And Mrs Kateřina? Has she surpassed herself with any new proverb?”

I pondered. Aunt Kateřina had set off on her honeymoon with her new husband for France – or more precisely Calais – for my new uncle, a dealer in ladies’ fashion, combined business with pleasure by arranging to collect a collection of gowns by a notable English designer. Aunt Kateřina considered this insufficiently romantic, but Uncle tactfully pointed out that if she was to spend her honeymoon amidst the latest creations of Parisian fashion, she ought to feel honoured. This argument delighted Milouš, who attached himself to the honeymoon with characteristic enthusiasm.

Upon arrival, the trio lodged in a small but cosy flat which Uncle had furnished with his customary method: minimal effort, maximum hope of comfort. After a short rest they strolled to the harbour, where Aunt Kateřina insisted upon broadening her cultural horizon by visiting the fish market.

Here they discovered that French fishmongers are consummate persuaders. A robust fisherman’s wife, having assumed the role of saleswoman, determined to make them her customers; and before they knew it, Milouš was clutching a parcel of fresh prawns. Being constitutionally incapable of resisting any gastronomic challenge, he rushed home to prepare them.

Meanwhile, Aunt Kateřina walked with Uncle through the streets, attempting to explain to him the crucial difference between a romantic promenade and a business errand in pursuit of a fashion collection. Uncle, whose philosophy was that life should not be resisted, listened with patient nods while calculating profit margins in his head.

When at length they returned, they found Milouš at the door with the expression of a man who had endured profound culinary disappointment.

“I cannot imagine how the French contrive to eat these things,” he complained. “I boiled them for half an hour, they remained tough, and then they crunched abominably! And those legs and whiskers are quite inedible!”

Uncle considered this, then glanced at the table, where a dish of boiled – but otherwise intact – prawns still lay.

“Milouš,” he said gently, “you didn’t peel them, did you?”

Milouš looked astonished. “Peel them?”

Aunt Kateřina drew breath to deliver one of her instructive proverbs – ‘Wisdom does not fall from the sky’ – but abandoned the effort and merely declared: “At least it proves we have strong teeth.”

Uncle sat down silently, opened his newspaper, and resolved that if he wished to survive marriage with Aunt Kateřina and her family, he must adopt the same policy he used in business: resist nothing, and hope to emerge with honour intact.

Back home, family life with Aunt Kateřina began almost idyllically. Uncle congratulated himself upon having acquired such a diligent housewife. Meals were served at precise hours, laundry smelled of lavender, and his jackets were always pressed to perfection. Even his shoes, which had never previously known polish, shone mysteriously each morning. Aunt Kateřina too was content, having found her new vocation in caring for her husband’s well-being as she thought best.

At first Uncle, being a man of placid nature, was grateful. Life was comfortable; worries evaporated like steam; and the sense of continual attention soothed him. But in time he realised that such attentions, accompanied as they were by endless proverbs, recollections of the late Uncle František, and gentle but insistent adjustments to his lifestyle, were draining his reserves of patience. Every decision of his was subjected to scrutiny and amendment. Life with Aunt Kateřina resembled a chess game in which one player sought constantly to destroy the other – for his own good.

One day at lunch, as Uncle studied a catalogue of new Parisian models, Aunt Kateřina, dissatisfied with his inattention, remarked: “František was a man of principle! He never read at table, and his scientific research into whether the shape of dumplings influences their flavour might have changed the whole culinary world!”

Uncle sighed, laid aside the catalogue, and attempted conciliation: “Indeed, my dear. Yet thanks to my profession, the world enjoys elegant gowns – which go splendidly with dumplings.”

Aunt Kateřina looked sceptical. “Gowns are not eaten, whereas dumplings are. And food is the basis of life! As my Aunt Emilie used to say: without a proper dinner, a man is like a tree without roots – he cannot stand firm in life!”

“And yet,” Uncle murmured too quietly to be heard, “many avoid root vegetables.”

Aunt Kateřina ignored this and moved on to her increasingly favourite theme: her failing health, allegedly caused by the exhausting labour of caring for her husband.

Uncle, partly from guilt and partly in search of peace, proposed: “What if we changed our surroundings for a while? Let us take a restorative stay in the mountains! Fresh air, exercise, peace, and snow will do us good.” Privately he thought: And perhaps give me a little peace from you as well.

Aunt Kateřina paused, evidently gratified though she tried to appear restrained. “Well… as my great-aunt used to say: it is better to slide upon snow than upon a guilty conscience.”

Uncle smiled. “Exactly so. I shall see to the reservations, and you shall pack your favourite woollen scarves, so that we may slide the more comfortably.”

And so it was decided.

II

An Invitation to the Mountains

A Hotel in the Alps

I Will Learn to Ski

Autumn evenings have a peculiar charm. They are the moments when one gladly wraps oneself in a plaid, pours a cup of tea, and immerses oneself in old books. That day, my presence at Grandfather’s house was not accidental. Painters were, at that very time, apparently waging a prolonged trench war with my apartment. I therefore decided to retreat to the quiet of Grandfather’s home, where order, silence, and intellectual contemplation reigned. I had no inkling that this seemingly peaceful period would be disrupted by a single letter.

That evening an envelope arrived, sealed with a large red stamp. Grandfather glanced over it, broke the seal, read the letter enclosed, and announced with satisfaction that his old friend and colleague was inviting him to the mountains for the ceremonial opening of an electric cable car, due to begin service after Christmas. The invitation contained for Grandfather a magical word: electric.

“This will be a great occasion, my boy,” he declared enthusiastically, casting a glance at Saturnin, as if to assure himself that the latter had already, by some sixth sense, seized upon the organization of the entire journey. In fact, he hardly needed to—Saturnin always anticipated his masters’ orders, particularly those of an unusual kind.

“You will accompany us, sir?” asked Saturnin in that casual tone of his, in which there always sounded a faint undertone of slyness.

“I am not certain,” I admitted. The idea of leaving my comfortable, and perhaps by now newly painted, apartment to venture into icy mountain heights did not appear especially enticing. Particularly since I had, of late, somewhat neglected my physical condition.

Saturnin, however, did not reply—he merely smiled faintly and returned to his work. That should have warned me.

The next morning, I found the newspaper on the table, opened to the weather forecast. “Ideal conditions for winter delights!” proclaimed the headline. Not far away lay a neatly prepared list of mountain specialties that would be a shame not to taste. Beside it was a brochure on the benefits of mountain air for mental health.

“Coincidence?” I thought.

When, during lunch, Saturnin casually remarked that a stay in the mountains often makes a man more resilient to life’s hardships and at the same time fills him with energy that city life cannot provide, I began to feel slightly manipulated. This feeling deepened when, that evening, he brought me a cup of hot tea and remarked in passing:

“You know, sir, it is said that a man ought, from time to time, to step out of his comfort. Otherwise, there is a danger that his comfort will gradually overgrow him, and he will become its prisoner.”

“That is a most interesting thought,” I muttered.

“Yes, sir,” Saturnin nodded. “Grandfather, for instance, believes a change of environment would only benefit you. And of course, mountain lodges are at this season extraordinarily cozy. A crackling fire in the fireplace, hot tea, good food...”

The crackling fire brought to mind a very cozy hotel in the Alpine foothills, where I had stayed last November with colleagues for some sort of business meeting. It was dreary weather, the wind chasing leaves across the stone pavement, rain drumming upon the ledges like a weary orchestra. While my colleagues were unpacking, dressing, and preparing for the meeting, I slipped into an armchair by the fireplace in the hotel lobby. I decided to enjoy a glass of ruby wine, though being aware that my knowledge of German could be summed up in three polite phrases and a single curse upon the weather, I wisely addressed the waiter in English instead:

“Red wine, please. Dry,” I added.

“Ausgezeichnet, mein Herr!” replied the waiter with a smile, and within a few minutes brought me... three glasses of red wine.

“Ich meinte trocken,” I tried to save the situation, attempting to explain that I had meant dry wine, not threefold delivery.

“Aber das ist trocken!” the waiter answered, still with the same smile, and he said it with such confidence that I dared not doubt that all three glasses truly fulfilled the condition of being very dry indeed.

So I settled back again, three glasses before me, staring at the crackling fire, and wondering whether the business meeting was worth the trouble at all.

My thoughts returned to the present, and I looked at Saturnin, who was at that moment arranging on the table a snow forecast and a brochure entitled The Joys of Winter Tourism.

“But Saturnin, I cannot ski.”

Saturnin smiled in that slightly enigmatic manner of his which always left me certain he had prepared some wholly unexpected argument. “Ah, sir, that is a trifling matter. I remind you that I once had the honor of assisting in the training of a certain unnamed Olympic champion in Nordic combined for his competition in St. Moritz. Although an excellent athlete, he had some deficiencies in downhill technique and take-off on the ski jump. Yet after several weeks under my guidance, his performance improved considerably. If, therefore, you say you cannot ski, I can assure you that within a short time I shall teach you to manage skis to at least a comparable level.”

I was taken aback. If Saturnin was truly capable of improving the performance of an Olympic competitor, perhaps I ought at least to consider his offer. But then it occurred to me that such progress would likely demand a degree of personal effort in which I might suffer numerous mishaps and bruises. I glanced around the room, as though seeking an excuse to decline, but Saturnin was already looking at me with an expression that suggested any resistance would be wholly futile.

“Very well, Saturnin. Make the reservation for me; winter in Prague is hardly worth a broken penny anyway.”

“Aunt Kateřina could not have said it better, sir!” replied Saturnin with a faint smile.

III

Return to Prague

Rumors of a Polar Expedition

Acquaintances Ask Me for a Wolf’s Tooth

After a short but pleasant stay at Grandfather’s house—where we exchanged pumpkin soup for warm family reproaches concerning modern bad habits, and where Grandfather ceremoniously presented Saturnin with a pipe “from an old scout who had survived three wives and ball lightning”—we returned to Prague, more precisely to my freshly painted apartment at Mrs. Suchánková’s.

I was prepared for peace, a cup of tea, and mild existential uncertainty—but Saturnin, evidently, was not. Hardly had the suitcases warmed themselves on the floor when he began spreading news that we were preparing for a polar expedition, during which we would hunt seals, cross frozen plains, and in the evenings by lamplight write a travel diary with an ostrich quill.

It started inconspicuously: the first was Mrs. Suchánková, who asked me at the door the next morning, with some concern, whether I had enough ointments against frostbite. The following day, my downstairs neighbor asked if I might bring him back a pelt of a polar fox—should I happen to fell one. And the crowning touch came when my distant Aunt Boženka telephoned to wish me a happy journey “into those cold lands,” and requested that I bring her a polar bear’s tooth “as a talisman for my grandson, who is afraid of the dentist.”

“Saturnin,” I addressed him sharply, catching him in the act of packing a sweater, compasses, a thermos, and an atlas of sea currents, “would you care to explain why my acquaintances are asking me to bring them a polar bear’s tooth, on the assumption that I will fell such a beast—which, I daresay, is improbable, considering that we are going skiing in the Jeseníky Mountains?”

“Of course, sir,” Saturnin replied with his usual calm expression of a natural history lecturer. “I merely said that we were departing for northern regions, where deep snows, strong winds, and restless fauna alternate. The word ‘Jeseníky’ I did pronounce, but more in the tone of a cipher. I did not wish for you to be unnecessarily disturbed during packing.”

“That explains a great deal,” I said dryly. “And what about Miss Blanka, the junior clerk from the law office across the street, who this morning brought me a knitted hot-water bottle with the wish that I not forget it at the entrance to the igloo?”

“I admit,” said Saturnin, “that I mentioned to Miss Havelková the possibility that we might be sleeping in ice and living chiefly on dried fish.”

“And what about Mr. Kotrba, who today, as I was leaving his shop, pressed into my hand a tin penguin and said, ‘This is for luck, Jiří, in that white wilderness’?”

“In Mr. Kotrba’s case, it was more of a portable parable. A tin penguin symbolizes the determination to face a hostile world with humor and a reproach in one’s eye.”

“Excellent,” I sighed. “Next time you inform someone of our departure, please consider the possibility that the information might be accurate.”

“As you wish, sir. Next time I shall say only that we are embarking upon an ordinary winter expedition into the border regions. Naturally equipped, of course, for the possible appearance of a polar bear.”

IV

A Walk Along the Embankment

An Unwilling Hero

It was a rather warm November Sunday afternoon—one of those rare days that Prague seems to produce from its drawers perhaps once every ten years, when it decides to be kind to its citizens. The sun struck the surface of the Vltava, swans glided with the dignity of opera singers after a performance, and I set off for a stroll along the embankment, hoping to forget, if only for a while, the packing of suitcases, snow-laden slopes, and Saturnin’s polar inventions.

People were everywhere, like seeds scattered on fertile soil. Families with children, elderly ladies feeding the birds with rolls carefully hoarded since spring, and enamoured couples trying desperately to appear natural, all the while checking every five steps that their attempts at nonchalance appeared convincingly effortless. Children dashed about gleefully, feeding the swans and, occasionally, themselves, for the difference between bread intended for waterfowl and afternoon snacks is about three seconds of maternal inattention.

I walked calmly, hands in pockets, face turned to the sun, thoughts hovering somewhere between Christmas and woollen socks, when I caught fragments of nearby conversations.

“That’s him,” hissed a young mother to her daughter. “The famous polar explorer. They say he kills wolves with his bare hands.”

“And sleeps in the snow with a knife between his teeth,” added her husband, with a tone of mild admiration and worry.

I turned around, half expecting some gentleman in a fur coat with a rifle slung over his shoulder, but alas—there was only I, in my brown wool coat, scarf in place, wearing the expression of a man who yesterday wrestled with a thermos that stubbornly refused to relinquish its lid.

And at that precise moment, a cry rang out.

One of the children, chasing a swan like a phantom in rubber boots, tripped, toppled over the edge of the embankment, and fell into the Vltava with the grace of a sack of potatoes hurled from a cart. For a moment, there was a silence so dense it could have been sliced with a blunt knife. Then all eyes turned to me.

“Sir Polar Explorer!” cried an elderly lady, her hat drooping like a hydrangea in autumn. “Please save that child! You swim in icy waters like a seal!”

I realised, at once, that an excuse along the lines of “I am, at present, wearing woollen trousers” would hardly be socially acceptable.

Thus I began frantically unbuttoning my coat, while inwardly counting how many layers I wore, and where, exactly, my courage ended and the onset of pneumonia began. By then, someone was shouting, “Long live the Czech Nansen!” and another was taking photographs. I was convinced that, in a moment, Saturnin would be selling postcards of me in swimming trunks on a frozen river.

Fortunately—for me and especially for the boy—two labourers from a nearby timber yard rushed over, one wielding a long pole as if to tame either the river or his boss. They retrieved the child from the water with professional swiftness and handed him to his thoroughly petrified parents. I remained, coat half open, wearing the expression of a man who had narrowly escaped heroism by a hair’s breadth.

The crowd applauded the workers, but also me, though I personally felt I had hardly earned it.

Upon returning home, Saturnin—who had, in his mysterious way, learned of the event before my arrival—leaned towards me and remarked calmly:

“Splendid, sir. Today you rescued a drowning child from icy waters without even wetting your big toe. That is, as Grandfather would say, the ideal ratio of effort to glory.”

From that moment on, Saturnin treated me like a legend of the national revival. He prepared my breakfasts with the solemnity of a chaplain at a coronation, and each morning delivered the newspaper to me with the cautionary note:

“Hopefully, today you will not encounter another child requiring rescue, sir—it would be a shame to scratch your hands on fishing nets.”

Commenting on my ordinary ascent of the stairs, he would say:

“Elegant step, sir. A saviour descending like a Greek hero. Were you wearing a cloak, it would certainly flow.”

And once, merely by waving to a neighbour carrying groceries, Saturnin gravely observed:

“Sir, your kind gesture now carries a different weight. People expect a ‘good day’ from one who knows what a bad moment looks like.”

A few days later, Saturnin showed me a newspaper column in the kitchen, where the event had indeed been noted:

“Renowned polar explorer rescues boy from the icy waters of the Vltava. Intervened just in time, with the composure of one accustomed to facing the elements.”

Saturnin commented simply:

“I think the Vltava might now be considered an icy stream, if only because of your deed, sir. Just as I predicted, people require heroes whom they may admire.”

V

How the New Uncle Became a Fashion Merchant

An Unplanned Trip to Paris

Milouš Is Forced to Go Shopping

Before my new uncle became a man who could effortlessly speak about summer and winter collections, with a look in his eyes as if he had just caught the rustle of French silk, he had been merely the son of a tailor. His father ran a renowned tailoring salon on Vranovská Street in Brno, where tails, jackets, and frock coats were made for the local gentry. His mother, an energetic and meticulous woman, worked at the same time as a seamstress for military uniforms of the Austro-Hungarian army—mostly trousers, which, she insisted, had to be sturdy enough to survive a war, yet elegant enough for a soldier to waltz at an officer’s ball.

It was a love affair between needle and thread—literally. They married in the atelier, with a sewing machine standing in for a wedding cake, and the wedding gift from colleagues consisted of thirteen meters of cotton cloth and four sets of buttons.

Even as a boy, my uncle admired the world of fabrics, cuts, and fashion magazines that his father secretly stashed beneath the counter to prevent customers from getting too many ideas. He dreamed of becoming a tailor, but there was one major problem: his hands were utterly unsuited for any delicate craft. His father never told him outright. Instead, he allowed him to try working in the salon, where, as an apprentice, my uncle was tasked with altering the coat of an older lady who wished for a more modern silhouette.

The lady, broad of hip and proud as a ship’s prow, left both the coat and precise instructions. My uncle took the tailor’s scissors, adjusted the cut, and with the words, “I am ready to create,” set to work. The result was a garment that undoubtedly transformed the notion of shoulders—at least insofar as they vanished entirely. When the lady tried on the altered coat, there was a bang that sent a gentleman’s hat crashing from the display case. The salon survived, but my uncle was promptly enrolled in a commercial school.

There, his talent fully manifested. He demonstrated an excellent eye for materials, a flair for selecting patterns, and an unexpected gift for persuading customers that this particular shade of gray represented the greatest revolution since the invention of the button. He also possessed a decent knowledge of French, honed by reading fashion magazines, so it was no surprise that, years later, he collaborated with several Parisian salons whose names sounded like charms for improving both mood and figure.

Thus, the man who had nearly lopped off an Austro-Hungarian lady’s waist became a fashion merchant, dictating in Prague salons whether brown this season would be chocolate or autumn leaf.

Originally, my uncle intended to travel with Aunt Kateřina to a restorative stay in an alpine sanatorium, as planned. However, he was called at the last minute to a business meeting in Paris, to negotiate a new fashion collection with a designer whose name sounded like a luxury mineral water brand. Aunt Kateřina received the news with an explosion that could have illuminated a small sanatorium.

“How do you imagine this, dear?” she fumed at breakfast. “Sanatoria are only restorative in pairs! The doctors confirmed it—three times! And winter in the mountains without a husband’s company is socially… extremely inappropriate!”

My uncle, who had long practiced the principle that the best defense is calm, set down his croissant and spoke with his usual mildness:

“My dear, surely you understand that winter coat collections will not approve themselves. And Paris—not just the city of love, but also of business obligations.”

It took Aunt Kateřina some time to digest that she would have to travel alone, but she then decided to take someone along who, in her words, “needs the restorative stay far more than I do”—Milouš.

Milouš, who was informed of this news in a tone reminiscent of a military mobilization, looked as though he would have preferred a drill in a swamp. His last hope was to plead some health excuse, but Aunt Kateřina preemptively measured his pulse and declared him “suspiciously vigorous.”

To make the situation slightly more bearable, Aunt Kateřina decided to purchase a new ski outfit for Milouš in the latest fashion. They visited a Prague salon, Modní dům, where the window was crowded with mannequins in sloping pants, fur collars, and smiles usually reserved for cocoa butter advertisements.

Inside, they were greeted by three saleswomen with carefully arranged buns and expressions deployed for selling expensive garments and less-than-sincere compliments. Milouš, physically present, mentally hovered somewhere between despair and attempted escape.

“Here we have our latest model—Norwegian inspiration with Swiss modesty,” sang the tallest saleswoman, gracefully producing a jumpsuit in red and cream, complete with fur collar, pockets “for all necessities,” and buttons the size of small biscuits.

Milouš was escorted to the fitting room to try on “Model Number 4—for the modern athlete.” After considerable rustling and several exasperated cries such as, “Why does this sleeve have three buttons?” or “How is one supposed to get in without four elbows?” the door finally opened.

The resulting sight was unforgettable.

Milouš, squeezed into a jumpsuit so tight he resembled a Sunday evening sausage, stood in the middle of the store with the expression of a man who has just understood the final state of his fate. One of the saleswomen tried to adjust the collar, but Milouš instinctively leaned back, lost his balance, and with a loud “Uff!” toppled into a decorative barrel filled with ski poles.

“That’s fine; it happens often,” said the second saleswoman, with a look that suggested it does not, in fact, happen often.

“But I can’t even breathe in this,” groaned Milouš.

“That’s good,” intervened Aunt Kateřina. “At least you won’t chatter so much on the slopes.”

Finally, Milouš was also recommended a true wool hat, decorated with a hand-crocheted pattern of reindeer antlers. The saleswoman enthusiastically demonstrated how the ushanka could be tied under the chin “for greater stability in adverse weather conditions.” Milouš said nothing. He merely stared into the mirror with the resigned look of a man who knows he is destined to become a sausage wrapped in reindeer design.

Milouš eventually left, clad in a red-and-white outfit with a fur collar so enormous it resembled an avalanche in vest form, and with tall boots more suited for trekking across frozen tundra than skiing.

IV

The Case of the Missing Helmet

Helping Grandfather Pack

On a Saturday morning, Saturnin temporarily abandoned his role as my servant to devote himself—so he claimed—to “broadening his horizons.” I called it a “work holiday without any work,” but since Saturnin’s presence is like the sun—when it is missing, everyone sooner or later notices—I had nothing better to do and decided to go find him at the city Museum of Historical Collections, where he was assisting with the installation of a new exhibition.

As I entered the imposing hall featuring a replica of a knightly tournament, Saturnin was speaking with the museum curator—a serious gentleman with chain-mounted glasses and the expression of someone who never forgets to lock a display case. Upon seeing me, he smiled in the way old friends—and old problems—greet one another.

“Sir,” he said, “how convenient that you’ve arrived. We are just addressing a minor… shall we say, complication.”

“Our helmet has disappeared,” murmured the curator so quietly that even the echo in the Gothic hall didn’t catch it. “Straight from the medieval artifacts exhibit. No signs of forced entry, no broken case, yet—no helmet.”

“I suspect,” added Saturnin calmly, “that the thief will appear entirely ordinary, but with an exceptionally romantic sense of battlefield reenactment.”

It turned out that the previous night the museum had hosted a reenactment of a castle siege, organized by the Society for the Reenactment of European Battles—a gathering of people who consider it their life’s mission to run across a meadow in plate armor, shouting, “For king and country!” And it was during this gathering that the famous 14th-century knight’s helmet vanished.

“Undoubtedly the work of a professional,” said the curator.

“On the contrary,” remarked Saturnin. “More likely an amateur, brimming with enthusiasm but lacking respect for display cases.”

Indeed, Saturnin went to work with his usual energy. He interviewed participants, examined the spots of skirmishes from the evening, mapped shadows on the floor, and most importantly—asked every participant to don their costume again.

“Why?” asked the curator. “It has nothing to do with the case!”

“On the contrary,” replied Saturnin. “A true knight would never use a 14th-century helmet—unless, of course, his own cracked that night and he borrowed one from the display…”

And indeed, Mr. Dobromil Sýkora of Pardubice, a reenactment enthusiast who proudly bore the title “Knight of the Free City of Vysoké Mýto,” nervously admitted after a moment that he had tripped over a bucket of grease, broken his own helmet, and—out of necessity—taken the one from the display case.

“I only wanted it for half an hour!” he exclaimed.

“And for half a millennium, others have lost it,” remarked Saturnin, raising an eyebrow.

The helmet was eventually found in a wooden crate labeled battle props, left wing of the army, among plywood swords and a blue costume resembling a medieval chimney sweep. When it was ceremoniously returned to its display case, the curator breathed a deep sigh of relief, and Saturnin suggested that in the future the motto should be: Into the exhibit with sword and discretion.

I asked Saturnin if he enjoyed rescuing cultural heritage while disguised as a guide.

“Very much, sir,” he smiled. “But I think our work here is done, and we may return to the apartment. One never knows when something more precious than a helmet might vanish—peace, order, or dignity during a visit from Aunt Kateřina, for example.”

We set off for home. I still wonder how many helmets and other treasures might have been lost if Saturnin had not seen through the reenactor’s unauthorized gleam that night.

We arrived at Mrs. Suchánková’s apartment shortly after noon—a peculiar interlude when nothing happens, yet one feels pleasantly tired. Saturnin was preparing tea according to a recipe allegedly brought from India (though it suspiciously tasted like ordinary tea with a slice of lemon) when the telephone rang.

I lifted the receiver, and an enthusiastic, muted voice said:

“Jiří? This is Grandfather. I need you to come tonight with Saturnin. We have a difficult task ahead—to compile a list of things we must take with us to the mountains for the cable car opening.”

“I thought the owner and chief engineer would handle that,” I said in surprise.

“Of course,” replied Grandfather, “but someone must know what exactly will be necessary. And port without company tastes like tap water. Jiří… please come. My second request in your thirty years of life.”

He delivered the sentence in a tone so contemplative that I could not summon even a mild irony, and I nodded in agreement, although he could not see me. Grandfather’s “requests” were roughly as frequent as the northern lights appear in Bohemia.

“Is something the matter, sir?” asked Saturnin, noticing my faraway gaze, the one men often have before going to war—or to visit Grandfather.

“We’re off to Grandfather’s,” I informed him.

Grandfather welcomed us at the door with the pride of a host and the spirit of an expedition. In one hand, he held a pencil, in the other, a blank sheet of paper, and in his eyes the expression of a man who could build a ski resort with two postcards and a piece of string.

“Thank you for coming, gentlemen,” he said ceremoniously. “Please sit; I have prepared quince cake, reserved for special occasions or the unexpected visit of the tax office.”

We sat at the table while Grandfather, with the solemnity of a master of ceremonies, served the cake. The pieces were placed on plates as calmly and ceremoniously as if aware that they were entering a company where one does not eat but contemplates.

“I would say, sir,” remarked Saturnin, “that even Dionysus this evening would trade his vine for a piece of this delicacy and compose the list of mountain necessities.”

Grandfather lifted his fork and said, “To the list! Let it be long, but not superfluous!”

“Which is, if I may note, an oxymoron in a tourist setting,” added Saturnin with a slight bow.

“Then, what do we need for the mountains? First and foremost: warm clothing.”

“And common sense,” noted Saturnin.

“Which, of course, one usually forgets in the mountains. Write, Jiří—coat, scarf, gloves… And what about an electric foot warmer?”

“Grandfather,” I interjected, “there will almost certainly be enough heat in the hotel, and outside it’s unlikely there will be an outlet. Even if there were, I do not imagine you walking around with a foot warmer.”

“Very well,” he waved his hand, “then an electric umbrella.”

“That hasn’t been invented yet,” remarked Saturnin. “And even if it had, I dare say it is impractical in snow. I suggest a classic cloak instead.”

Grandfather considered. “At least I will take an electric flashlight. That is my final word.”

“Your final word was the umbrella a moment ago,” I reminded him.

“In that case, that was my penultimate word. The electric flashlight will be the last. Saturnin, continue.”

“I would also recommend basic toiletries, socks—ideally in several layers—and a book. In the mountains, one reads best literature with a strong plot and a reasonable number of corpses.”

“Grandfather prefers the memoirs of Austrian generals,” I added.

“Yes, they knew how to freeze with style. Write: ‘reading as per personal preference.’ And we must not forget the first-aid kit.”

“And a thermos!” exclaimed Saturnin. “Without a thermos, cold is just a long inconvenience.”

Grandfather pondered again. “And matches? Without them, one cannot light a candle in an emergency. And without a candle, one cannot see whom one writes a will to.”

“I’ll write matches twice,” I said. “One as a precaution.”

“And snowshoes?” Grandfather continued hopefully.

“Unnecessary,” Saturnin shook his head. “If you are sinking that deep into snow, snowshoes will help about as much as nail polish on the Titanic.”

After two hours, we had a list over three pages long. It included three different types of soap, a spare whisk, iodine, a French book on meteorology (which no one read, but everyone respected), and two boxes of rusk, which Grandfather labeled as “strategic provisions in case of starvation.”

When we finished the port wine and Saturnin ceremoniously folded the list into Grandfather’s travel bag, he sighed: “That’s it, gentlemen. Preparedness is the mother of fortune. If a landslide surprises us, I will be the first to illuminate it with the electric flashlight!”

“And the only one to offer rusk,” added Saturnin.

Then we parted for the evening—us with the good feeling that we had forgotten nothing, and Grandfather confident that even if something were forgotten, he could rely on Saturnin. And he—this we both knew—forgot only unnecessary worries.

VII

Leaving Prague

Grandfather’s Lament over the Railways

In the Footsteps of the Past

Arriving at the Hotel

“Trains aren’t what they used to be,” sighed Grandfather, as our train from Prague clattered along the countryside with a crackle and some discordant grumbling. “In my youth, steam locomotives had a certain charm. That rhythm, that thundering breath… And today? Diesel machines growl like an angry bear with indigestion.”

Saturnin, who was just pulling a tin of cookies and a folded napkin from his backpack, as if he had somehow foreseen that a small snack would be served en route, raised an eyebrow and remarked:

“Sir, electric locomotives are much quieter and cleaner. Should you not rather lament that they are as rare on Czech tracks as saffron?”

“That’s exactly it!” Grandfather became indignant. “Back in 1879, Siemens in Berlin demonstrated an electric train on a third rail, and here we are still waiting for someone to string wires overhead! Křižík had electricity on Letná already in 1891—pulleys, overhead lines, everything invented! And Bechyně? Tábor–Bechyně, 1903, the first electric railway here! But no. We still breathe coal and progress drags like a schoolboy to the dentist.”

“But Grandfather,” I tried to soothe him, “perhaps these lines are not electrified yet because…”

“Because what?!” he interrupted with a dramatic gesture. “Because it would cost too much? Let them recall how much the coal cost! And the waterworks! And the noise! A proper railway should be silent as a noblewoman at a funeral, not like an executioner with bronchitis.”

Saturnin, meanwhile gracefully pouring amber liquid into cut glass, spoke with the seriousness of a sommelier: “Sir, technical progress is like a good servant—it comes late, but certainly. And perhaps even this diesel beast will eventually take us to Hanušovice, although it has nothing of the grace of a steam engine.”

“Exactly!” grumbled Grandfather, pointing to the platform where a connection awaited us. “And look—another diesel monster. If wires had long since run here, we could travel quietly and with nobility. But no—we still live in the age of steam. Only without the steam.”

And so, amid Grandfather’s grumbling and Saturnin’s cognac in hand, we boarded the connecting train to the Jeseníky Mountains—a machine that, in Grandfather’s words, “Masaryk would have immediately retired as unworthy of progress.”

As we arrived at Hanušovice—the station that under normal circumstances would remain in the collective memory of Czech travelers only as “the one with the buffet that never has goulash”—Grandfather suddenly raised a finger and solemnly declared:

“Did you know that the President himself once passed through here?”

“Really?” I asked in surprise.

“Of course,” Grandfather nodded. “In 1924, on his way to Topoľčianky. He reportedly even stepped out to greet the citizens who had gathered to see the President. It was a grand moment. The portress fainted, and the municipal secretary wept into his lapel.”

Saturnin, topping off his cognac, remarked, “That must have been an experience—Masaryk in Hanušovice. Almost like us now, except his train probably wasn’t delayed.”

“And if it was, he certainly deserved it,” I muttered, as we hurried with our backpacks toward the delayed connection. “Perhaps: ‘Citizens of Hanušovice, thank you for your heroic transfer!’”

“And I would add something about democracy and responsibility to the railway timetable,” added Grandfather, complaining during our transfer that under Masaryk, a train would never wait while passengers went to fetch a sausage in a roll.

Saturnin, now comfortably seated on the train, raised his glass and concluded our small-town transfer drama:

“To the health of the President. Wherever he may be, he would surely appreciate that we, his spiritual heirs, do not waste time on empty speeches, but lead by example—specifically, the example of reasonable sipping during travel.”

We continued our journey—me, Grandfather, and Saturnin—without fanfare or honor guard, yet with the knowledge that at least once we had changed trains on the same platform as T. G. Masaryk. Perhaps even with a similar expression, the one a person wears when wondering, “Will the train even arrive, or should I just go check into the hotel across the street, Aichinger?”

As the train struggled up the final kilometers into the hills and grudgingly shunted at each switch, Grandfather leaned against the window frame and declared:

“If we had traveled by stagecoach, we would already be there. And along the way, we could have rescued a fainting lady, ambushed two robbers, and dined at a noble inn.”

“I’m afraid, sir,” said Saturnin gravely, “that today the fainting lady would have received only a fine for delaying traffic, the robbers would be employed in insurance, and the inn would serve only Italian sausages and pickled herring.”

Finally, the view opened to the mountain station, euphemistically called “the starting point of a comfortable Alpine holiday” in the hotel brochure. In reality, it was a station that looked as if someone had decades ago taken away its official permit to exist, yet it stubbornly continued.

“Well, there we are,” said Grandfather. “Now to find the hotel. I hope it has beds and a roof—those are somewhat important in these parts.”

Our carriage—more precisely, a sleigh drawn by a surly driver—waited at the station. The driver had the face of a man who breakfasts on silence, lunches on sarcasm, and dines on ill humor. Every attempt at conversation was met with a mere nod—or once, a slight snort, which could mean either “board now” or “swallow your questions.”

Upon arriving at the hotel, a view unfolded that would delight even the most hardened bourgeois—a grand villa in Alpine style, with a turret, wooden balconies, and freshly raked snow, as if someone had measured it with a ruler. Smoke lazily curled from chimneys, and the scent of resin mingled with a light waft of baked apple and cinnamon—perhaps to immediately convince everyone entering that they were welcomed like a son.

“Well, well,” Grandfather observed, satisfied, “it seems we won’t have to heat with coal or fetch water from a well.”

“Apparently, a higher cultural level of civilization awaits us,” agreed Saturnin, looking as if the hotel had once been owned by his great-grandfather.

The doors opened almost by themselves, and before we could step inside, a smiling porter appeared, uniform ironed with surgical precision. He bowed lightly like a birch in the wind and took our luggage with such calm, one might almost believe carrying suitcases was his personal pleasure.

In the lobby, the receptionist greeted us with a smile like that of a fairy in a storybook—or a bank clerk on a promotional poster. Quick, efficient, and discreetly tasteful. Our room was ready, the fireplace burning, fresh flowers in vases, and in a corner of the lounge, soft music played—a waltz melody making even simple breaths feel ceremonious.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” said the receptionist, handing Grandfather the key. “Room 202, with a view of the ridge and a bathtub. Breakfast is buffet style, served from seven to ten. And if you are interested in evening tea, we serve it in the library by the fireplace.”

“What day is it today?” asked Grandfather, suspiciously, as if it all smelled like a dream.

“Friday, sir.”

“Then it must be a dream. Saturdays are usually chaos everywhere, and here they serve tea and harmony.”

“Did you say the library?” interjected Saturnin with a twinkle in his eye. “It sounds as if culture has put on a tailcoat and is waiting for us to invite it to dance.”

“Well, Jiří,” said Grandfather, unbuttoning his coat and scanning the lounge with his eyes, “I like it here. I could endure even a world war here. Of course—provided the service remains as it is.”

While Saturnin carried our luggage with the elegance of an English butler, Grandfather and I settled briefly into the armchairs by the fireplace. The fire crackled pleasantly, its reflections casting patterns on the ceiling that Salvador Dalí would surely have appreciated—if he were content with a pine log taking center stage in his art.

We walked down the polished corridor with brass handles and soft lighting, discovering that our rooms were on the first floor. My room was on one side of the hallway, while Saturnin and Grandfather occupied a connecting two-room suite on the other—presumably so that Saturnin could remain close in case it became necessary to remind Grandfather that twice-daily iron-rich tonics are not the same as cognac.

We agreed to meet for dinner, then retired to our rooms—myself with quiet satisfaction at the prospect of a warm bath, Saturnin with his usual calm, and Grandfather with the expression of a man expecting to encounter a castle chef who had once served him pheasant with chestnut stuffing on some estate near Znojmo.

VIII

Dinner at the Hotel

The Surprise from the Third Floor

The dining room of Hotel Albatros was exactly what one hopes to find after a long train journey—high ceilings, the soft glow of crystal chandeliers, tables with white cloths and silverware so polished that Saturnin would surely consider it suitable for a surgical procedure. The staff was discreet, attentive, and almost supernaturally silent—the only louder sound in the room was Grandfather’s satisfaction upon discovering his favorite dish on the menu: “wild boar terrine with truffle oil.”

“That’s a sign,” he remarked, “that this establishment cannot be bad. Whoever has truffles knows what is truly important in life.”

As we delved into the menu, written in such grand French that even a lycée graduate might pale, I noticed a familiar figure taking a seat at a window table—a middle-aged man with an intelligent face, glasses, and the look of someone who has not only the world but also the mental health of its inhabitants under control.

“Doctor Vlach!” I exclaimed in surprise, almost overturning the water carafe.

The figure at the window lifted his head and smiled. “Well, well, Jiří! And Mr. Saturnin. And Grandfather! What brings you to these parts? I hope not blueberry picking—it’s rather a poor season in January.”

“The ceremonial opening of the electric cable car,” Grandfather replied, emphasizing the word electric, and rose to shake the doctor’s hand. “We haven’t let our kidneys properly freeze in a long while.”

“And you?” I asked, offering him a seat at our table.

“A psychiatrists’ conference,” Dr. Vlach replied, sitting with the motion of a man who had endured four lectures and three clinical case studies in a single day. “The third floor is temporarily occupied by those close to the human soul. And judging by the nighttime quiet in the corridors, even those already on medication.”

“Excellent,” Grandfather chuckled, “so if we don’t feel like sleeping tonight, we just knock, and they’ll provide us with Luminal as a courtesy of the establishment.”

“Or at least a stern look and a list of anxiety disorder symptoms,” Dr. Vlach nodded with a slight smile. “Luminal is a barbiturate with a reputation that can calm even the greatest skeptic.”

He then leaned back, slightly pensive, and added with a twinkle in his eye: “By the way, did you know that barbiturates owe their name to a certain Barbara? Allegedly, she was the girlfriend of the German chemist von Baeyer, who discovered barbituric acid. Romantic, isn’t it? Another version says he synthesized the compound on St. Barbara’s Day, so the naming was taken care of. Either way, it’s nice that a remedy for restlessness carries a name that sounds almost like the beginning of a love letter.”

Grandfather frowned. “I hope to live to see the day when some scholar discovers a substance that calms, makes one sleep, wakes one fresh as a fish, and remembers where yesterday’s newspaper was put.”

“This substance, sir,” Saturnin declared with calm dignity, “is among well-bred men called a glass of cognac after dinner and a good measure of common sense.”

As Saturnin skillfully topped off the wine like a prestidigitator, he asked, “May I inquire, Doctor, is the conference serious and scientific, or… the sort with a buffet?”

“I would say a combination of both,” Vlach replied. “In the afternoon, we present research results; in the evening, we test resilience to social contact and tartare.”

Dinner continued pleasantly—good food, better company, and occasional attempts by Grandfather to demonstrate that every psychiatrist is merely the result of his own childhood. Dr. Vlach conducted himself with the nobility suitable even for a dinner with paranoid patients and a hysterical chef.

When we finally parted and Vlach disappeared back to the third floor, Grandfather thoughtfully stroked his chin. “You know, Jiří, if one day an avalanche buries us or a snowstorm traps us here, it’s actually good that we have a psychiatrist. At least we can talk to someone about what childhood has done to us.”

Dr. Vlach slowly savored a sip of wine and gazed at his napkin as if seeking the secret to humanity’s salvation. “You see,” he said at last, “most people think psychiatry is the science of madness. In reality, it’s the patient observation of normal people in abnormal situations. And the more such situations I witness, the more I am convinced that no one is truly normal.”

Grandfather nodded. “As Kateřina would say, František had this theory: a person is only fine until they start believing they are fine.”

“That could be the subject of a thesis,” Vlach dryly remarked. “Especially when the person also claims that everyone else is an incorrigible oddball. Entire schools of thought arise from that.”

“And entire schools of exaggeration,” added Saturnin, emerging from behind a waiter with a small cake in one hand and unwavering calm in the other. “By the way, Doctor, the conference topic ‘Emotional adaptation of an individual under extreme conditions’ sounds lofty, but isn’t the real highlight on the third floor the session ‘How to cope when your aunt forgets to send a package’?”

“I’m giving that lecture tomorrow morning personally,” Vlach said with a mischievous grin. “The front row is already fully booked—mostly psychiatrists who never receive packages.”

We laughed, and I thought to myself that Dr. Vlach’s presence in this mountain hotel was like finding a vial of cologne in the backpack of a blind sherpa—unexpected, slightly unsettling, but at precisely the right moment, refreshingly welcome.

“And what are the plans for your expedition tomorrow?” Vlach asked, as Grandfather pondered whether to have another pancake or go straight for the liqueur.

“If the weather is good,” I began, “we plan to ski. And if it isn’t…”

“You’ll go anyway,” interrupted Saturnin. “The forecast is only a suggestion, not a binding order. And no snowstorm has yet stopped a determined Czech who has waxed his skis.”

“In that case, I hope Doctor Vlach will join us,” noted Grandfather. “If someone collapses on the trail, a professional will be needed. And a psychiatrist is undoubtedly closer than a stretcher.”

Dinner was drawing to a close. Waiters began collecting empty plates with the quiet precision of a well-trained regiment, and a slightly off-key tango sounded from the speakers, which Grandfather said “resembled an attempt to land on the flooded Vltava.”

“Friends,” Dr. Vlach rose with a slight sigh and a mildly stiff back, “it was a pleasure. Tomorrow I have a panel discussion on Borderline States and Borderline Personalities, which—if you’ll pardon me—is especially relevant in the mountains.”

“Do you mean altitude, or the psychological state of the guests?” asked Saturnin, elegantly sliding his chair back under the table.

“Both,” Vlach laughed, waving goodbye. “And now upstairs to the third floor—not for spiritual elevation, but for the hotel conference section.”

The three of us headed to our first-floor rooms—I to one side of the hallway, Grandfather and Saturnin to their two-room suite on the other.

“Jiří,” Grandfather said as we stood by the staircase, “if we don’t set out on time tomorrow morning, remind me to command a military-style wake-up for Saturnin. With music, but without artillery support.”

“Count on it, Grandfather,” I smiled.

We parted, and I retired to my room, where a soft bed, a view of the darkened forest, and the quiet joy that the world is still crazy enough to be worth observing awaited me.

Outside the window, snow fell gently. Everything indicated that tomorrow would bring more than just my first ski ride.

IX

The Lady in the Red Tatra

Learning to Ski

An Afternoon in the Library

Morning at the Hotel Albatros possessed all the features of an ideal beginning: silence, snow-clad peaks for scenery, and a breakfast that managed to unite the comforts of the First Republic with the light hand of a French cook. Grandfather had been wandering the corridors in his dressing gown and with a newspaper since six o’clock sharp, because “in Masaryk’s day no decent man lazed in bed until nine like some sort of salon anarchist.” Saturnin had arranged my jacket neatly over the back of a chair with the remark: “Breakfast is a ritual, sir. And rituals deserve dignity.”

The dining room smelt of coffee, vanilla crescents, and polished wood. Grandfather ordered tea “of the kind the field chaplain drank at the battle of Limanowa.” Saturnin requested soft-boiled eggs “in the manner of Eton,” and I settled for toast with butter and jam, which, in flavour, carried me back to the irresponsibility of childhood.

Scarcely had we begun when the sound of a motor reached us from outside. Not an ordinary motor — this was the sort of engine whose voice heralds not merely an arrival but an occasion. In the hall came a hush, and several waiters peeped from behind curtains with an air of perfectly sincere curiosity.

Miss Barbora Terebová had arrived.

She did not walk in — she sailed. In a red Tatra 30 Sport, draped in white fur, a little hat on her head that would not have disgraced a cinema star. She stepped out with a poise that would have shamed an operatic soprano at a charity gala, and calmly adjusted a glove. She entered the lobby as only women enter who know people are looking — and know that it is their due.

Grandfather lifted his eyebrow. “Well, well. I thought I might meet Engineer Tereba here, but this, evidently, is another calibre altogether.”

Saturnin, buttering a roll without so much as a crumb, observed: “This, sir, is not a guest. This is an event.”

I merely watched in silence, debating whether it would be too theatrical to rise and wave. I rose all the same and managed to spill coffee into my saucer. “Calm yourself, Jiří,” said Grandfather, amused. “That, precisely, is what it looks like when a gentleman attempts to make an impression and is defeated by his own cutlery.”

Miss Terebová must have seen us — or perhaps merely sensed us. She turned, smiled lightly, and inclined her head. The gesture was entirely sufficient. The world slowed for a few seconds.

After breakfast we withdrew. The receptionist, with a confidential air, informed Saturnin that “Miss Terebová has a suite with a balcony and a view of the whole ridge.” We retired to our rooms to restore the pulse after the morning’s excitement.

Luncheon was a quieter affair, although Grandfather kept remarking how “a lady with a fur will doubtless insist on tasteful skiing attire.” Saturnin, with an expression as though plotting a polar expedition, was, I strongly suspected, in reality planning a lightly choreographed collision between myself and Miss Terebová beside the ski rack.

She appeared at lunch — sat with a grace usually reserved for ballerinas and diplomats, and ordered a consommé as casually as if it had been a ham sandwich. When the waiter had gone she turned to me with a faint smile: “So you too have chosen the mountains in which to reflect on life? For a bachelor type, very commendable.”

I nearly choked at the accuracy of the shot, but attempted a relaxed smile. “Not at all. I’m hardly a hermit. Merely... culturally selective.” “That sounds like a euphemism for a man who lunches in silence and arranges his books by the colour of the spine,” she replied pleasantly, with a touch of irony.

Salvation came in the form of coffee, after which she excused herself for an afternoon rest, leaving behind a smile which seemed to say: We shall see how long you can last without your bachelor’s silence.

I turned to Saturnin, who was at that moment aligning the sugar bowls according to some invisible compass. “Saturnin,” I whispered, “this afternoon we must commence ski training.” “Certainly, sir. Do you mean a basic acquaintance with the equipment, or shall we proceed directly to the graceful turns which resemble a startled deer?” “Let us begin with fastening the skis, and see how far I can go without public ridicule.”

Saturnin approved the plan. “Naturally, our training ground must be a safe distance from witnesses — especially those who might interpret your falls as a novel form of mountain choreography.”

And so my first skiing lesson began.

Saturnin led me to a quiet spot between two spruces “which had witnessed enough sporting collapses to be unastonished.” Lesson one: fastening boots to skis. We discovered the bindings had three reliable methods of not fastening, and a solitary one of working properly. After nearly catapulting Saturnin into a snowdrift, we progressed to balance.

“Feet apart, knees springy, arms loose in front. No, this is not a boxing match. Yes, better — now you look like a man uncertain whether to advance or retreat.”

Then the famous beginner’s turn — leftwards. “Shift your weight, look where you wish to go, and breathe. Breathing, in a crisis, has proven superior to shouting.” My turn resembled more a shuffle in a post-office queue, but Saturnin applauded. “Splendid! You possess a natural gift for dramatic inclinations.”

Stopping, to my astonishment, turned out to be my forte. I managed to brake neatly before a molehill, and Saturnin declared me fit for tomorrow’s slopes. “Time now for lunch, sir. The human organism best preserves its victories when crowned with broth and dumplings.”

We returned to the hotel — I, brimming with new-found confidence; Saturnin, with the air of a man who has successfully instructed a kangaroo in ballet.

Dinner was lonely. The doctor was still lecturing on unconscious motives in sport, Grandfather was interrogating the hotel electrician about switches, and Miss Terebová appeared at some hour calculated precisely to avoid me. Saturnin, faithful as ever, brought soup and lemonade. “Not every day is a festival, sir. Sometimes one must be grateful for the chair and the view of an empty hall.” “Thank you, Saturnin. You have the gift of making solitude with goulash sound like a stage on the road to enlightenment.”

Later I sought refuge in the library, that quiet sanctuary which, in truth, mostly served guests who had lost their way to the billiard room. I sat with a book on medieval Hungarian tax reforms, but in reality I watched the door, thinking of Miss Terebová.

And she came — calm, assured, selecting without hesitation La Dame aux Camélias. She cast me a glance, smiled faintly, and remarked: “You appear to be reading the wrong literature, Jiří.”

Without waiting for reply she departed, carrying the book and a portion of my dignity.

Doctor Vlach soon entered, hunting for Jung. He studied me critically. “You are pale, Jiří. Not stomach neurosis, I hope? Or was it Miss Terebová? I saw her with La Dame aux Camélias. That is an archetype.”

“What of?” I asked. “Of unshared anima-projection,” he explained, as though it were obvious. “In brief, you see in her an ideal; she, in you, a chance to practise irony. Jung would call it a challenge to individuation — to discover yourself. Then perhaps also her.”

And with that he left to interrogate the receptionist about archetypes in the Lost & Found department.

I remained with my Norwegian fjords, my empty glass, and the distinct feeling that the world was rather larger — and more inclined to irony — than I had previously imagined.

X

Brandy before Noon

The Festive Opening of the Cable Car

Milouš Baptises Grandfather’s Shoe

Refreshed by sleep and the brisk mountain air, I determined, the next morning, to begin the day with a few modest exercises. I had just assumed the position of a squat, arms extended forward in what I believed to be an attitude of Spartan vigour, when the door flew open and there stood Saturnin. In one hand he bore a silver tray, upon which rested a bottle containing a dark fluid and, beside it, a cut-glass brandy balloon that sparkled with an enthusiasm which the hour of the day scarcely justified.

“Brandy, sir?” he enquired with the courtesy of one announcing afternoon tea.

“Saturnin,” I said firmly, “I have already told you once that no true gentleman drinks before noon.”

Saturnin inclined his head ever so slightly, as though he held in his possession a fragment of wisdom not yet revealed to the rest of us.

“Sir,” he replied gravely, “misfortune does not walk among men today—it treads the mountains.”

I frowned. “You have it wrong, Saturnin. The proverb goes quite the other way.”

He shook his head, sorrowfully but decisively. “Not today, sir. For today your Aunt Kateřina and her son Milouš have arrived.”

He delivered the announcement in the manner of a man informing you that the orchestra has struck up the Funeral March at your wedding breakfast. Almost at once the reception echoed with a shrill outcry: “And could you not give me a room with a view to the south?!”

This was followed by a thunderous litany of Milouš’s ailments, accompanied, it seemed, by the tragic misrouting of his ski-equipment trunk somewhere between Vienna and Berne.

The crescendo was still building when came the next wail:

“How am I supposed to pay for the room when you’ve stolen my purse?!”

The receptionist—an anxious youth with the expression of one who had just discovered he was destined to spend the remainder of his professional life in this particular establishment—endeavoured to calm her.

“Madam, we haven’t taken anything. Perhaps it is in your handbag—”

“My young man,” Aunt Kateřina interrupted with the solemnity of a classical scholar correcting a false declension, “I keep my belongings in order. If I were chaotic, I should never have succeeded in packing twenty-four pieces of underlinen for a five-day stay!”

The tension in the hall was nearing the pitch of a Wagnerian overture when a familiar voice interposed:

“Kateřina, for heaven’s sake, what are you about this time?”

Grandfather entered, wearing a jacket which, according to Saturnin, possessed a pedigree of its own, and the expression of one who had already once called off a revolution on grounds of insufficient organisation.

“You here?” cried Aunt Kateřina, startled.

“Yes. I am here with Jiří and Saturnin. And by the way,” he added dryly, depositing an elegant leather purse upon the desk, “you dropped this at the taxi stand. The receptionist did not rob you. Nor did anyone else.”

“I should like to see that proven,” retorted Aunt Kateřina, who never accepted reality without at least a skirmish. Nevertheless she took the purse.

“And without money you don’t go to the tavern,” added Grandfather.

The receptionist drew a deep breath of relief and took payment for the room.

Thus the brandy was explained; and Saturnin had leisure to add:

“Aunt Kateřina wishes me to inform you that she expects to be received with the deference due to a lady who, for the sake of her health, has renounced French waffles, hot baths, and her husband—though not in that order.”

At that moment there came a knock so vigorous that one might have supposed the fire brigade in urgent need of our room. Before I could protest, Saturnin flung open the door and in swept Aunt Kateřina, followed closely by Milouš, who looked as though he were preparing to scale the Annapurna, judging from the woollen wrappings, patent fastenings, and ski-goggles dangling round his neck like trophies from an unsuccessful expedition.

“Welcome to the mountains, madam,” Saturnin greeted her with the perfection of a maître d’hôtel, “where birds sing, snow glitters, and dramatic entrances are best delivered in the lobby, not the corridor.”

She fixed him with the gaze of a seasoned school-inspectress and retorted without hesitation:

“He who laughs last is usually the one left without a blanket and with a room facing north.”

“What are you doing here with Grandfather, Jiří?” she demanded of me.

I explained that, unlike her, I had been invited to the grand opening of the cable car, and expressed my curiosity as to what she and Milouš were about. At mention of the festivity, her eyes gleamed, though she did not answer my question.

“Good day, old chap!” bawled Milouš, striding in as though claiming the place. “What a surprise! I noticed that Barbora is here too—the young lady who jilted you. Now I can finally display my athletic prowess before her.”

I have never liked being called “old chap,” especially by one with whom I share no antiquity; and I dislike even more hearing Miss Barbora spoken of in the boastful tones characteristic of gentlemen with narrow calves and broad self-esteem. Moreover, the reference to our parting stung.

I was about to explain my sentiments to him—clearly, concisely, and at a sufficient volume—when Saturnin anticipated me.

“Mr. Milouš,” he observed with perfect gravity, “seems prepared to dazzle not only the ski-slopes but also the hotel dining room with a hairstyle suggesting the combined effects of alpine wind, an unfortunate choice of headgear, and a pasta-making machine. Remarkable indeed to resemble an avalanche victim—head first—before one has attempted a single turn.”

“I didn’t ask you, servant!” snapped Milouš, unaware that the thin ice upon which he trod had just given way.

“I shall have to speak seriously with Grandfather,” Aunt Kateřina announced.

Saturnin bowed slightly. “Forgive me, ladies and gentlemen.” He then provided Aunt Kateřina with a cup of grog and escorted her and Milouš to their room.

When he returned, I said, “Saturnin, what if I were to give you an order of a somewhat unusual kind?”

His face brightened. “I have always longed for unusual orders. Judging from past experience, this one will concern Mr. Milouš.”

“Indeed, Saturnin. The young man lacks proper behaviour and requires remedial attention.”

Saturnin straightened, assuming the composure of a military portrait.

“I accept this mission with all due seriousness. I shall pursue Mr. Milouš relentlessly on land, water, and in the air—on snow, ice, or carpet, should the necessity arise. I shall not rest until you, sir, are able to stand firmly on both feet and administer your justice personally. Until then, I shall employ every opportunity, every device, and any stratagem consistent with good manners and the constitution of this land.”

Satisfied with Saturnin’s oath, I began my preparations for the opening ceremony of the new cable car.

From the early hours, the hotel buzzed with unusual activity: people were ironing scarves, polishing sticks, and brushing up their most sociable expressions. At the lower station of the cable car, the scene was already boiling like a communal wash-house before Easter.

Grandfather, who had waxed and combed his moustache in the corridor, was ready to set off when Aunt Kateřina waylaid him. She wore a woollen suit in the shade of dry moss, and on her lapel a flower which resembled the earnest but misguided attempt of an amateur florist to capture autumn’s mood from the leftovers of a greenhouse.

“Grandfather,” she began sweetly, “given my social standing and delicate health, surely I ought to be in the front row. You know how draughts affect my left eardrum…”

“My dear Kateřina,” Grandfather interrupted with a smile, “at celebrations, a seat in the front row is not begged but earned. I recommend the third row—it offers a fine view and rather less draught on the auditory organ.”

By the time we reached the station, an impressive throng had gathered: hotel guests, villagers, and a group of bespectacled gentlemen in hats who looked like the annual congress of a psychiatric society—which indeed they were. Dr. Vlach presided with the air of one prepared to demonstrate that a cable car might have a decisive influence on the stability of the human psyche.

On a small platform, the Jesenice Quintet performed music that sounded as though composed by candlelight in a wine cellar. Then the director of the cable car, a man with the face of a retired railwayman and the voice of an operetta tenor, stepped forward.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he declared, “permit me, on behalf of all the staff of the cable car, to thank you for your favour and your trust. This project was a dream—a dream of uniting mountain and valley, comfort and adventure.”

He then invited Grandfather onto the platform. Grandfather bounded up, looked round the crowd, nodded toward the psychiatrists, and spoke: “My friends, a cable car is like the human mind—it must be well directed, steady, and possess a strong rope. Let us be grateful to electricity, which spares us the trouble of climbing on our own legs. Above all, let us salute technology, which raises us not into the abyss but above it!”

The applause was still reverberating when Miss Barbora Terebová glided onto the platform, elegant, faintly blushing, and smiling gently.

“On behalf of my father, Engineer Tereba,” she said, “I thank you for attending. He asked me to tell you that each passenger today helps to test not only the strength of the cable, but also the hope that man can unite with nature without needless exertion.”

A toast followed. Corks flew like signals of joy, and the first cabin prepared to depart. Into it stepped the proprietor of the line, Grandfather, and Miss Terebová. We followed—Saturnin, Dr. Vlach with his colleagues, who scribbled notes with equal interest in the machinery and, I feared, in my attire.

Aunt Kateřina, several rows back with Milouš, hissed:

“Miss Terebová first? Outrageous! The girl may have an engineer in the family, but I have arthritis in my left knee and the burden of a sickly son!”

“Mama,” said Milouš, “I think it’s splendid. Especially that girl with the drum.”

“Be quiet, Milouš. And don’t lean out, unless you wish the ceremonial breeze to give you influenza.”

The cabins swung gently; the band resumed; the maiden voyage began. The faces of the crowd lit up with the kind of wonder one sees only at a first snowfall—or when confronted with the bill for an eight-course dinner.

The contrivance rose toward the summits, bearing with it our hopes. Saturnin observed that such a serene inauguration might serve as a model for other transport schemes—for instance, a tramway to Modřany. Grandfather explained the principle of the rheostat to a psychiatrist, Miss Barbora gazed at the view with a delicacy that seemed to touch even the steel cable, and the mountain air itself grew lighter.

Back at the station after our triumphant ascent, the band essayed a waltz intended to suggest Viennese elegance but performed in the style of a weary pot of tea. Saturnin meanwhile supervised the champagne, which on this occasion was no counterfeit of refinement but genuine Moët & Chandon, to the astonishment of the guests. Dr. Vlach pronounced it therapeutic.

Just then Milouš, attempting gallantry with a bottle, miscalculated the trajectory of the cork. It narrowly missed the lady director from Brno and plunged into the trumpet of a musician who was preparing to blow. The effervescent stream, taking its revenge, baptised Grandfather’s shoe.

“Now that’s a proper christening!” cried Milouš.

“Young man,” said Grandfather, surveying his champagne-soaked footwear, “if you again employ the word ‘christening’ in connection with my boots, the band will have every reason to strike up a requiem.”

The day wore on with the cheerfulness of a mountain fair. Children attempted to sledge in their best clothes; adults manoeuvred for a flattering group photograph; and Saturnin demonstrated how to open champagne with a boot-buckle. When the sun sank behind the peaks and the shadows of the cabins stretched long like some poet’s metaphor, we made our way back to the hotel.

XI

An Evening with Music

Miss Barbora Avoids Me

Milouš’s Dancing Creations

A Power CutThe Hotel Ghost, or Milouš in a Nightgown

The hotel had transformed itself into a dignified social venue for the evening. The brass chandeliers in the vestibule were lit, flowers had appeared on the dining tables, and in the lounge—where during the day skiers stood about in damp socks—the first notes of the piano now rang out. The local duo were playing: a gentleman with a beard that lent him an air of mild compositional exhaustion deftly traversed the keyboard, while a slender violinist with a fringe drew from his instrument tones so affecting that even the hot punch tasted more melancholy than usual.

Dinner was over, and everyone capable of movement had migrated to the lounge, where Grandfather was just concluding an anecdote about how, “in Masaryk’s day, one went to bed with one’s wits about one, not with a cup of hot chocolate.” Miss Barbora made her entrance with her customary elegance, took a seat near the podium, and spent the better part of the evening looking pensive—precisely in that manner which awakens in one a desire to know what on earth she is thinking. Whenever I attempted to make eye contact, she would, at that very moment, direct her gaze to the menu, the floor, or the violinist’s shoelaces. I began to suspect that she was either pretending not to see me, or I had inadvertently become part of a social experiment.

Milouš, on the other hand, exhibited no such hesitation and undertook the evening as a hunting expedition into uncharted territory. After a brief and, for him, rather unsuccessful conversation with Miss Barbora, he took up a position by the buffet table, where—as was his habit—he found the ham rolls to be a convenient medium for forging connections.

His attention was soon captured by Miss Lenka, a girl of undoubted beauty, with delicate features and a gaze that reflected not only a delight in her surroundings but also a certain absence of all complicated thought processes. She was a creature who knew how to take joy in a warm blanket, a crackling fire, and the fact that hills went “up and down.”

Milouš sidled up to her with what he presumably took for a casual smile, and uttered:“Good evening. You must be the local fairy, or am I mistaken?”Miss Lenka laughed, as girls do who have been told all their lives that laughter becomes them, and replied:“I’m Lenka. I like snow very much, even though I’m not allowed to eat it, Daddy said.”And that was that. Milouš, charmed by her artless manner, soon asked her to dance. They took to the floor just as the violinist launched into a slightly jaunty polka, which didn’t suit Milouš’s style at all, but that never stopped him. They moved about the dancefloor in a manner reminiscent of two marionettes being operated simultaneously by someone with no experience and no hands. Lenka laughed, Milouš perspired, and on several occasions he nearly collided with the floral arrangements.

While Milouš and Miss Lenka continued to traverse the dancefloor in a manner suggesting an attempt to combine a figure-skating routine with a snowball fight, Grandfather sat in an armchair in the corner of the room, where a sort of gentlemen’s reserve had been established. He was kept company by Dr. Vlach, who had just set down his glass of sherry, and by Saturnin, who looked like a man mentally rehearsing the next orchestral performance of a teaspoon upon porcelain.

“I tell you, gentlemen,” said Grandfather, with his hands behind his back, “the youth of today dance as if they are trying to imitate a shooting gallery at a fairground. Only without the elegance, and with a greater risk of ankle injury.”“It is not dancing,” added Dr. Vlach, “it is an expression of a subconscious struggle with rhythm—a civilized duel between order and chaos.”“And the result?” ventured Saturnin.“Several lost heels, one overturned vase, and the orchestra’s confidence slightly shaken,” stated Grandfather. “But I must admit, I find it more entertaining than the Saturday radio programme.”

In the opposite corner of the room sat Aunt Kateřina, dignified and upright, swathed in a silk shawl that with every movement perilously approached a candlestick. From the heights of her moral conviction, she observed the dancing couples like a headmistress who has just discovered someone dancing a waltz at midnight unsupervised.“This is dreadful,” she remarked to an elderly gentleman who had gallantly offered her his arm for a dance. “Do you really think a married woman can just float about in a foxtrot rhythm in the presence of strange men?”The gentleman gave a slight bow and retreated with admirable elegance. Aunt Kateřina drew her cup of hot chocolate closer and added emphatically:“In the time of my late husband František, it was known that dance was an act of nobility. And a noblewoman does not participate in everything that revolves around shoes and a loss of dignity.”Then she glanced at Milouš, who was just executing something that faintly resembled a turn, and added:“And I hope his legs won’t tremble so much tomorrow that he can’t hold a spoon at breakfast. His digestion has been upset enough ever since they served him a schnitzel with horseradish on the train!”

The evening atmosphere flowed on between violin notes, the flickering of lights, and mixed feelings. Grandfather lit a cigar, Dr. Vlach returned to his glass, and Saturnin was just conversing with the orchestra leader about the correct temperature for storing strings.And I? I sat in a corner, quietly hoping that Miss Terebová would one day admit that she knew I was looking at her—and that she had actually found it rather pleasant.“Careful, Milouš,” remarked Grandfather as they passed our table, “at that speed you are endangering the health, and perhaps the lives, of innocent waiters.”“The midnight waltz is on the programme shortly!” cried Milouš cheerfully, almost turning so sharply that Lenka’s dress created a small cyclone.

I remained seated. Miss Barbora was avoiding me with the precision of a Swiss watch, and Saturnin, who had meanwhile discreetly brought a cup of lemon tea to the table, merely observed quietly:“The calm before the storm, sir. Sometimes it lasts longer than one might wish.”And so I sipped my tea, listened to the violin, watched the dancing couples, and pondered whether there existed a sport in which I would have less success than in dancing—synchronised swimming, perhaps.

Suddenly, the lounge was swallowed by darkness. The musicians stopped playing, from outside came the roar of the wind and the rattling of shutters.“Typical,” remarked Grandfather. “In my youth, the electricity would only have cut out during a coup d’état.”Dr. Vlach noted, “Around the time you were young, Faraday had only just invented the dynamo.”Miss Barbora set aside her magazine and quietly observed:“Let us hope it is not some member of staff with an idea for an impromptu fire show.”“Improvisation is the beginning of all misfortune,” declared Aunt Kateřina.Milouš rose and turned uncertainly towards the door, which swayed slightly in a gust of wind.“Perhaps we should… do something,” he suggested, without knowing precisely what.Lenka leaned her elbows on the arm of her chair and dryly remarked:“Don’t worry, Milouš. It doesn’t look like anything worse than a service outage just yet.”

At that moment, footsteps were heard—slow, heavy. The door creaked open and in the light of a candle brought by a waiter, there emerged… Saturnin.In one hand he carried a silver tray with brandy, in the other an old-fashioned paraffin lamp. His expression was calm and solemn, as at the opening of a school gala.“Good evening, esteemed guests,” he said with a slight bow. “It seems fate has granted us an opportunity to enjoy the evening in the authentic spirit of adventure novels. Brandy, anyone?”“Saturnin,” I whispered, “where did you get that lamp?”“Always prepared, sir. I have also brought cards—in case anyone wishes to play bridge. Or tell ghost stories.”Lenka smiled slightly.“I like the ones best where the ghost turns out to be a relative in the end.”Aunt Kateřina sighed:“He who digs a pit for others… usually ends up being its caretaker.”Dr. Vlach leaned towards the lamp and said thoughtfully:“Interesting how flame affects the perception of fear. Did you know that—”From the corner of the lounge came several discordant notes, as if a cat had run across a sheet of music. Everyone froze—except Saturnin, who remarked:“That will likely be the wind. Or the ghost of the hotel pianist, who died playing a too-passionate waltz and left an unresolved dominant seventh chord in the harmony.”Milouš started and grabbed Lenka’s hand. She looked at him with an amused expression:“It’s alright. Just please don’t decide to protect me by dancing.”Miss Barbora stood up and said dryly:“I’m going to bed. Some of us wish to engage in real sport tomorrow, not social improvisation.”

After she left, Grandfather leaned towards me and whispered:“You see, Jiří, women like her need more than darkness and ghosts—they need a reason to smile. Or at least a reason to stay in the lounge.”Saturnin poured brandy and handed me a glass:“And who knows, sir… perhaps that reason will come tomorrow. But for tonight, I recommend enjoying the atmosphere. And should anyone still be afraid, I can also offer hard caramel sweets and a lecture on Sudeten folk legends.”And so we remained in the circle of lamplight, while the wind howled outside the windows and Milouš continued to hold Lenka’s hand—perhaps from habit, perhaps from caution. The only certainty was that this night would enter our family’s annals of stories.

The night wore on. The wind continued to wail around the cornices and shutters, the paraffin lamp cast shadows on the lounge walls so vivid they could have been used without fear in an amateur theatrical. The guests slowly dispersed to their rooms. Saturnin extinguished the flame with the air of a man concluding a theatrical performance and retired to his cabin—that is, to the room next to mine.

No sooner had my head touched the pillow than a hollow THUD! echoed from below, followed by the cracking of wood, the clinking of porcelain, and a heart-rending cry that sounded as if someone had stabbed an opera tenor just before the overture.I burst out of my door just as Saturnin emerged into the corridor, already in his jacket and with the paraffin lamp in hand.“Sir,” he said gravely, “I believe the hotel ghost has just come on duty.”

We descended the creaking stairs and were presented with a scene best characterised as an orchestral collision of misunderstanding, porcelain shards, and lace aesthetics. In the middle of the hall, beneath an overturned flowerpot and next to a shattered serving trolley, stood Milouš, a tragicomic monument to clumsiness. To our surprise, he was not in a dressing gown, nor was he in pyjamas. Milouš stood before us in a nightgown, evidently intended for someone three sizes larger and two generations older—lace-trimmed, white, with the embroidery “To Mother” on the collar.On his head was a cap with a bobble (which had slipped during the fall and now hung over his eyebrow like a peculiar monocle), and in his hand he clutched a candlestick, apparently borrowed from a private chapel.“Good heavens, what happened here?” I gasped.Milouš shivered like a chilled cavalier and spoke: “I was trying to find my pyjamas in the dark when I heard suspicious footsteps. Heavy ones. Coming from the corridor. I wanted to… ehm… protect the hotel from an unknown intruder. As a man. So I quickly put on this nightgown, which was the only thing to hand. And then… then I got rather tangled up in it on the stairs.”Saturnin bent over the broken serving trolley, picked up a piece of cake from the floor, and mused: “I presume this piece once resided in the display cabinet now lying to our right. And I deduce that Mr. Milouš struck his head precisely upon its frame, thereby creating the impression that the ghost did not descend from the heavens, but materialised directly from the buffet.”

At that moment, the hotelier arrived with a lantern and an expression that could be described as a combination of horror and fiscal panic. Grandfather appeared shortly after, adjusted his waistcoat, and remarked laconically: “If I had known I would live to see myself haunted by my own relative in a nightgown with an embroidery, I would have given up port altogether.”Aunt Kateřina arrived moments later and, upon seeing Milouš, raised her hands to the heavens: “Why, Milouš? Why do I have your pyjamas in my suitcase and why are you standing here amidst this wreckage in my nightgown?!”“Mother, I just… wanted to be useful,” mumbled Milouš, the candlestick slipping from his hand onto his foot.Saturnin observed calmly: “I must admit, as a defence against evil, Mr. Milouš would confuse even an experienced vampire.”Grandfather sat down on the stairs, breathed out, and said: “When this gets out among the guests, we’ll have to add champagne to breakfast, so people think it was just a nightly performance.”

And so ended the first night of our shared mountain holiday. Without electricity, but with an unexpected performance by Milouš in the role of the hotel ghost.

"Sir," Saturnin whispered to me with a slight bow, "lesson one has just concluded—courage, fear, embarrassment… and it must be said that Mr. Milouš displayed a remarkable dose of bravery, albeit in combination with lace and panic."

XII

Breakfast with a Surprise, or Eggs à la Benedictine

The Skiing Champion

Grandfather Plans an Expedition

Evening by the Fireside

The morning atmosphere in the hotel dining room was one of quiet solidarity amongst all who had suffered minor psychological injuries during the night. Milouš—freshly instructed, bruised, and psychologically shattered—took his seat at our table with an expression best described as a mixture of humility, pain, and the expectation of an attack from an unknown quarter.Grandfather was meticulously buttering his roll, Miss Barbora was leafing through a newspaper, and Saturnin had subtly repositioned himself behind Milouš like an orchestral player awaiting his big solo.“How did you sleep, Milouš?” I asked.“Well,” he lied.“Really?” came Miss Barbora’s voice. “I rather had the impression someone was reciting the Lord’s Prayer backwards in the corridor while tripping over a ficus.”Milouš pretended a lemon had strayed into his roll.Saturnin, meanwhile, discreetly signalled the waiter and ordered for Milouš a “special hero’s breakfast menu”—which turned out to be a combination of pickled herring, mustard toast, a soft-boiled egg, and horsetail tea, served on a tray bearing the inscription: Special Thanks to the Guardian of the Night from Room No. 7.“What is this?” gasped Milouš as this meal, which under normal circumstances would be classified as a pre-emptive strike against gastronomy, landed before him.“Your breakfast, Mr. Milouš,” replied Saturnin with a slight bow. “Compiled according to the dietary regime of Norwegian polar expeditions. Ideal for men who have faced danger—or at least caused it.”“But I just wanted a jam roll…”“Courage, Milouš,” Saturnin interrupted him. “Every proper hero begins the day with a challenge. Yesterday ghosts, today herring.”Miss Barbora hid behind her newspaper, from behind which came a muffled pffft.Grandfather sipped his tea without batting an eyelid and remarked: “Very sensible, Saturnin. I recall Lieutenant Malina once telling me how before a battle in Galicia their cook served them only sauerkraut and vinegar water. Supposedly to calm them.”Milouš bravely raised his fork and carved into the herring. Immediately, he assumed an expression that could have warranted a complaint not just about the breakfast, but about the entire concept of hotel catering.“You know, Milouš,” I said gently, “perhaps you just lack the right perspective. Sometimes even a herring tastes different if one eats it standing up.”“Standing up?” he asked, uncertain.“Quite common in Norway,” added Saturnin. “Some scholars even believe consuming herring in an upright position activates the so-called defence reflex of dignity. By the way, you should try it with the egg as well.”“With what, please?” Milouš’s eyes bulged.At that moment, a waiter approached with another bowl—this one full of peeled boiled eggs—and handed it to Saturnin.“As requested, sir.”“Thank you. Mr. Milouš, would you permit a small dexterity test? You will take an egg, stand up, and attempt to balance it on your forehead for five seconds without it falling.”“What?! Why?”“A psychomotor examination. Two years ago it was administered at a certain sanatorium near Neuchâtel to persons suffering from an increased incidence of smug talking in company. The results were remarkable.”Milouš looked at us, then at the egg, then at his fate. He sighed, stood up, and placed the egg on his forehead. He lasted precisely two seconds before it slid off, bumped his nose, and ricocheted into his teacup.Saturnin silently applauded.“Excellent, sir. Progress.”Grandfather nodded and remarked:“You know, we used to perform similar exercises in the army with potatoes. Anyone who lasted ten seconds was allowed to speak loudly in the mess hall for a whole week.”Miss Barbora set aside her newspaper again, and this time she actually smiled. Not like someone amused at another’s expense—more like a person who has just seen a chess master sacrifice a bishop in one subtle move to set up a checkmate.

After breakfast, everyone dispersed to their rooms. Saturnin approached me and declared:“And now, sir, if you’ll permit me—I shall convene a skiing expedition,” whereupon he set off to inform the others.Grandfather, who had meanwhile conducted a rapid inspection of the hotel’s fuse box and made several pencil notes in his pad labelled “POTENTIAL DANGERS,” declared:“The technical infrastructure would survive even a weaker gale, and I have therefore concluded there is no reason to lag behind. I shall join you.”Saturnin found Dr. Vlach at his writing desk, where he was just drawing a diagram of the “psychological profile of a man in ski boots.” Upon hearing of the expedition, he merely nodded:“Excellent, the fresh air will benefit my contemplations on regressive behaviour in gloves with thumbs.”Miss Barbora was approached with particular delicacy. Saturnin gave a slight bow and said:“Miss, the snow is firm today, the slope gentle, and the company diverse—ideal conditions for a short excursion.”“Very well, I shall go. But only on condition that I don’t have to feign enthusiasm for the climb up the hill,” she replied with an amused smile.Milouš was the last to learn of the expedition. Saturnin found him in the lounge, practising a new skiing smile in front of the mirror.“An expedition to the slopes, Mr. Milouš,” he announced.“Splendid!” cried Milouš. “At least I can show everyone I can even ski backwards!”

We met on the slope about an hour later—all except Aunt Kateřina, who had declared, “After such a strenuous journey, I primarily require regeneration,” and added: “I shall prefer a glass of orange cocktail and a generous dose of sunlight on the hotel terrace.”Saturnin couldn’t resist adding, “Beautifully phrased, Mrs. Kateřina,” he nodded. “Except that today the sun is shining about as much as the gas in a lit oven.”

That Miss Barbora skied excellently did not surprise me—I rather expected it of her. I suspected as much of Dr. Vlach; he had a peculiar gift for performing any sport with the elegance and calm of a man who had just been teaching it in a sanatorium for aristocrats, even if he might never have heard of it until yesterday.That Milouš would be equally at home on the slopes, however, somewhat shamed me. It seems the late Uncle František, besides bequeathing him a propensity for omniscience and strange attire, did leave some practical legacy after all.But Grandfather surprised me the most. Until now, I had taken his stories about how during the war he saved some baroness on skis from field hunters in the Italian Alps as poetic exaggeration. Primarily because the number of baronesses and duchesses Grandfather has rescued in his tales wouldn’t fit into a minor ball at the imperial palace.

We took the lift to the top of the hill, where our friends were already waiting. The first to set off down were Dr. Vlach and Grandfather, whose style resembled a slower giant slalom—dignified and deliberate, yet with surprising assurance in every turn.Behind them shot Miss Barbora, who demonstrated exemplary alpine skiing, graceful and fluid, as if she were born on the slopes. And Milouš, who had borrowed skis under some not entirely honourable pretext, tried to keep pace with Miss Barbora (‘pace’ is perhaps not the most accurate term, but given my limited experience, no better one occurs to me), though his style was somewhat less elegant and he couldn’t seem to gain speed, as Saturnin had convinced him in the hotel that if he soaped his skis, he would surely go like a greased lightning.I, meanwhile, lingered more in the background, with the expression of a man not entirely sure whether it is he, or someone else, standing on his feet. Saturnin skied a few metres ahead of me, discreetly checking on me and occasionally casting a look that said: “Don’t be afraid, sir, you are still alive.” The whole group always stopped at a place with good visibility and waited for me to join them.While they were waiting for me at a meeting point by the edge where the slope broke sharply into a steeper descent, a—as I realised a moment later—very ill-advised thought struck me: This time, I will wait for you.I crouched down, assumed the egg position, and hurled myself downwards with determination.The moment I shot past the group of waiting friends at a solid speed, I heard an anxious cry:“Brake!”

Immediately after crossing the break, I understood their urgency. The slope ahead of me transitioned into an unexpectedly steep drop—at that moment it felt almost vertical. I flew several metres through the air, instinctively spread my legs like an experienced jumper, and thought to myself: If I fall now, it will be for the last time.I landed on the slope with a force that shook every muscle in my body. My legs buckled like the wheels of a carriage hurtling down a country lane behind a pair of runaway horses. Yet I remained on my skis—albeit more thanks to the force of inertia than any skill of my own.In the distance, I spotted the path leading to the hotel and a group of guests carrying their skis towards the cable car. I can’t stop this, flashed through my mind.With the last remnants of my strength, I edged my skis and attempted a desperate manoeuvre, exactly as Saturnin had taught me yesterday. Geysers of snow erupted from under my edges, I swivelled around like a small snowstorm. Surprisingly, it had a practical effect—the guests on the path respectfully parted, creating a clear passage for me.With unexpected precision, I shot through them and finally came to a stop only in a small copse beyond the path. I took off my ski goggles, wiped the sweat from my brow, and then a mighty voice rang out:“Bravo!”The onlooking guests burst into enthusiastic applause, under the impression they had just witnessed a demonstration of sporting prowess. I, however, knew the truth.I did not ski again that day.

I returned from the copse to the others with a mixture of humility and residual adrenaline in my veins. Saturnin silently handed me a pole that had flown off somewhere during the manoeuvre and, with his customary calm, remarked:“Sir, I recommend a rest regime for today. Even victors must occasionally rest.”We all then slowly made our way back to the hotel. The journey took longer than in the morning—partly due to tired legs, partly due to Grandfather’s stops to assess the construction of the ski lifts and jot notes in his pad.

At lunch, served by a waitress with the expression of someone who has already heard too many strange stories from guests from Prague, Grandfather, with a serious face, unfolded a new plan:“Tomorrow we shall undertake a ridge hike. I have my eye on an excursion along a route recommended in the twenties by the Club of Czechoslovak Tourists as ‘elevating, yet consistently dangerous’. That cannot deter us.”Miss Barbora excused herself for a moment, saying she needed to go into town. Apparently, she was missing something “absolutely essential,” but despite Saturnin’s urgent questions, she did not specify whether it was a scarf, nail polish, or literary inspiration.Aunt Kateřina, meanwhile, with a dramatic expression, bent over Milouš, who was ostensibly massaging his calf and occasionally hissing in pain.“Milouš! After such a performance, you must immediately take a warm bath. Imagine what your father would say! No, no discussion. I shall get you hot tea, dry socks, and vilcacora.”“Isn’t that for joints?” Milouš wondered.“It’s for everything. You only have one health, and a cold begins where reason ends,” she replied triumphantly and led him away like a mother with a wounded hero.

While Dr. Vlach argued contentedly with Grandfather about the altitude gain of tomorrow’s hike and Saturnin discreetly jotted something in a small notebook, I gazed quietly out of the window. Miss Barbora was still avoiding me—I had apparently inadvertently left her with the impression of a stuntman without a sense of self-preservation. But even that, as Dr. Vlach noted, can be considered charming in certain circles.

That afternoon, Saturnin and I spent in my room. While he prepared lemon tea according to a method he called “decidedly English,” I lounged in an armchair and gazed boredly out of the window at the mist rising from the forest.“I must say, Saturnin,” I sighed, “I have the impression Miss Barbora is avoiding me more and more blatantly. She didn’t address me once at lunch today. And when I helped her with her coat, she thanked me in the manner one thanks a hotel maid.”Saturnin set the teapot on its saucer, sat down opposite me, and with the expression of an English lord just before a declaration of war, proclaimed:“Sir, courtship is like a game of chess. You must not move your queen too early, or she will lose her head. I propose several strategies that have proven successful in the past with demanding ladies: firstly—measured indifference. Ladies appreciate men who have interests other than just them. Secondly—cultural stimuli. A quote from Rilke by the fireside does more than a dozen roses. And thirdly—heroism. Nothing stirs feelings like a mild risk of concussion.”“That sounds like a plan with a high degree of danger,” I objected.“Precisely, sir. Nothing important is achieved without risk. Remember Hannibal. Without the elephants, no one would remember him.”At that moment, Aunt Kateřina’s voice came from the next room: “And don’t forget the scarf! From a cold to inflammation is but a step, and from that it’s often a pulmonary sanatorium!”“Golden words,” Saturnin remarked calmly. “Aunt Kateřina is again guarding her son’s health like a left hand guards a tea set treasure.”

We ended the evening in the hotel lounge, where a crackling fire cast a soft light on the carpets, heavy curtains, and small tables with porcelain cups. The atmosphere was sleepy, kindly, almost dreamlike. Grandfather and Dr. Vlach settled into deep armchairs by the fire and immediately immersed themselves in a passionate debate.“Crowd psychology is fascinating,” said Dr. Vlach, sipping his tea: “Did you know that people behave more intelligently when they feel they are being watched?”“That is possible,” Grandfather nodded. “But let me tell you, the three-phase wiring of an old Austrian circuit breaker is equally fascinating. Sometimes it resembles the nature of your crowd—a single wrong touch and everything burns up.”I sat with Saturnin a little apart, mentally comparing the beauty of the local ladies with the elegance of Miss Barbora.“I can’t help it, Saturnin,” I said. “The lady at the reception is charming, of course, but Barbora has something… impregnable about her.”“Yes, sir,” Saturnin agreed. “It’s the difference between looking at a flowering meadow and exploring a snow-covered peak. The first warms you, the second makes a man get dressed and climb.”“Ah, youth,” Grandfather’s voice came, without him looking up from his cup. “You only recognise a woman’s beauty when the fuses blow in the attic and she isn’t afraid to climb down for a replacement. Until then, it’s all just superficial aesthetics.”“And remember,” added Dr. Vlach, “true love doesn’t begin with a kiss, but with an awkward silence that both enjoy.”We laughed quietly and savoured the evening calm, interrupted only by the crackling of logs and the occasional clink of a teaspoon on porcelain. It was one of those rare gatherings where one doesn’t need to say anything to know one is among friends.

XIII

We Go for a Walk

Gentlemen Head first

A Snowstorm

It was a beautiful mountain morning. The sun had overslept a little, but the sky looked optimistic and the cable car was functioning—which, as it later turned out, could not be said for the entire day. Our party, consisting of Grandfather, Dr. Vlach, Miss Terebová, Milouš, Aunt Kateřina, Saturnin, and myself, had decided to undertake, as Grandfather put it, “a short health walk with a minor altitude gain,” which in his conception meant a ridge hike with the occasional need for crampons and an ice axe.Aunt Kateřina, who had looked the entire way to the station like a participant in an Annapurna expedition, suddenly halted before the cable car and said in a hushed voice:“And are you quite sure it’s safe? Won’t the cabin be overloaded with so many people? What if the cable snaps? Or a gust of wind hits us? Or our skis get tangled in the pulley?!”Saturnin, who was just helping Milouš put a glove on inside out, turned with his usual calm:“Madam, the cable car is the safest mode of vertical transport. Moreover—should you have any doubts, I can immediately arrange for you to ascend on foot. With your energy, you could be at the top before the cabin. And while the cable car requires electricity, you are powered by the pure force of character.”Aunt Kateřina visibly deliberated whether to take this as a compliment or an insult, finally resolutely tightened her scarf and decided that if something fateful was to befall her, it should at least happen while she was wearing gloves.At the lower cable car station, we were greeted by the usual mountain draught and a man in a shaggy coat who, with the importance of a chief customs officer, was clipping the corners off tickets with scissors and wishing each of us a somewhat stilted “happy journey upwards.”

We packed ourselves into the cabin and began to ascend.

“Lovely view,” remarked Dr. Vlach as we passed the first snow-laden spruce.“Indeed, sir! I firmly believe we shall also take away other unforgettable memories from this excursion,” replied Saturnin with an expression so calm it was as if he already knew what awaited us.Sometimes I really think Saturnin can also tell fortunes. It wouldn’t surprise me if he casually announced that in his time he’d been an assistant at the oracle in Delphi, and had been transferred from his position as a minor Pythian advisor into our world solely to help us face the improbable events of daily life with nobility.At the upper station, we all disembarked with varying degrees of grace, Milouš tripping over Aunt Kateřina’s ski pole, which she had most unfortunately placed on the slanted pathway.“This will be a sporting performance!” declared Milouš, getting up and tightening his hiking boot laces. “This sort of terrain is made for me. I have mountains in my blood!”The hike began calmly. Miss Terebová walked beside me and said with a slightly mischievous smile:“Jiří, I hope you haven’t forgotten your parachute today.”Pleased by her sudden interest in communication, I replied in the spirit of an English gentleman: “I’m afraid I don’t fall elegantly enough to require one.”“Yesterday it looked like the only thing you needed was a team of orthopaedists at the bottom of the slope.”“But you must admit, a spectacular landing amongst the guests at the hotel requires a certain dose of courage and was duly appreciated by the audience.”“Yes. And a certain dose of madness,” she added calmly, with that quiet laugh women have when they’ve read you like a weekly train timetable.

Milouš, meanwhile, strode ahead of us, loudly ruminating on his physical condition:“This is a breeze for me. Once we crossed the Low Tatras in two days, and we were carrying a tent, a stove, and a Chihuahua with an injury.”“And did you lose your brain in the process?” asked Grandfather.“No, I didn’t have it with me!” Milouš quickly cried, proudly pleased by Grandfather’s interest, failing to notice the irony in the question.

We walked single file along a narrow path not far above the valley when Miss Barbora’s handbag slipped from her hand. With a few bounces, it set off down the icy snow with such determination, it was as if it had planned its own holiday in the valley.I, walking about two metres behind Miss Barbora, reflexively reached out my hand, but at the same moment my foot slipped on an icy patch hidden under the snow. With the grace of an ostrich on a frozen pond, I shot after the handbag, headfirst, arms splayed like a scarecrow lost in the mountain landscape.At the bottom of the valley, waist-deep in snow and with a certain degree of personal indignity, I retrieved the handbag, which had by now come to a orderly stop by a large boulder. I picked it up, dusted it off, and with my soul curled up somewhere between my calf and my cap, I set off back. Given the terrain and my condition, I crawled back up to the path on all fours, where the rest of the expedition was waiting with expressions ranging from concern to mild amusement.Miss Barbora took her little bag with a smile that could be interpreted in several ways and thanked me with a slight hint of surprise.Grandfather cleared his throat and remarked:“Only a gentleman of great calibre hurls himself headfirst down a slope to rescue a lady’s handbag.”Saturnin nodded with the gravity of a university examiner and said:“I must admit, sir—your descent style recalled the nonchalance of a chamois on a staircase. And your ascent? A true mountaineering concerto—in both body and expression.”

About halfway along the ridge, the sky began to cloud over. The wind strengthened, and the weather took on the expression of a reluctant housewife during morning cleaning.“Come on, surely it won’t rain,” muttered Milouš, beginning to glance back suspiciously often.“I think, Mr. Milouš, that rain on a mountain peak in winter at temperatures well below freezing would be a truly unusual natural phenomenon,” replied Saturnin.“Wait! What if… what if we get lost? This doesn’t look good anymore!” Milouš continued.The hitherto unusually calm, almost silent, Aunt Kateřina—I wouldn’t want to suspect her of being guided by maternal instinct—again declared solemnly, “and whenever civilised people find themselves in danger, the unwritten law immediately comes into force that ladies are to be saved first, namely widows and orphans.”She then fell silent for just long enough to make it perfectly clear whom she meant.While Milouš nodded in agreement and adopted the posture of a slightly trembling hero awaiting brave evacuation from the battlefield like a wounded officer, Dr. Vlach cleared his throat significantly, Saturnin looked up at the sky with the expression of a man counting how many more snowflakes must fall before the situation becomes sufficiently absurd, and Grandfather, who had maintained a dignified silence the whole time, finally sighed:“I wonder how many other widows and orphans get themselves hauled up mountains in woollen costumes from Paris—and at their current husband’s expense.”Then he raised his voice and turned to us with the same zeal with which he allegedly once opened speeches at a Sokol rally:“Miss Terebová, of course, I shall rescue with the greatest pleasure. I just fear I shall have to wait my turn, isn’t that right, Jiří?” Miss Barbora blushed charmingly and Grandfather continued, “And as for those mentioned widows and orphans… I fear they don’t usually trek into the mountains in furs, but rather stay at home and knit socks for charitable societies.”

“Give a dog a bad name and hang him,” retorted Aunt Kateřina with a meaningful look at Grandfather.He was not thrown off and replied with a smile:“You’re right there, Kateřina. But a barking dog usually doesn’t bite—unless someone takes its blanket, and in weather like this too.”Then he looked around the snow-covered ridge and added:“And as we know, when a dog howls at the moon, a change in weather is coming. In our case, I’d say the whole pack is howling.” And he hit the nail absolutely on the head.The snowstorm arrived exactly as expected—unexpectedly and with a loud whistling. Fortunately, with the exertion of all our strength, vocal cords, and a pocket map, and with Saturnin’s substantial help, we made it back to the upper cable car station. There, however, a pleasant announcement awaited us in the form of a note stuck to the door:“Due to technical reasons, cable car operation is suspended. Expected resumption immediately after weather conditions improve.”We therefore moved to a nearby kiosk. Behind the counter stood a kiosk attendant in a thick woollen sweater with the expression of a man who has already sold more tea today than he considers healthy, and he dryly announced:“Ladies and gentlemen, supplies of provisions are almost exhausted. I can only offer you hot tea.”Aunt Kateřina, who had just sat down on a bench with the expression of a victim of wartime events, raised her head with dignity and said:“My dear man, please order a sleigh immediately. An enclosed one, preferably, with soft blankets and heated if possible. I believe that in civilised society, one cannot expect a married woman to spend time in a kiosk amidst snow, thermos fumes, and the odour of wet gloves.”The kiosk attendant scratched his neck and with a shrug replied:“Madam, a sleigh would be a lovely thing, but in this weather, chamois would have to pull it up here. And even they would think twice. Perhaps you could arrange something with the gentleman in red whose sleigh is pulled by reindeer, but I’m afraid he only works one day a year.”Aunt Kateřina turned away offended to the window, where through the fogged glass she observed the inhospitable wilderness as if searching for a cruiser with a hot bath on board.

Besides us, several other excursionists gradually arrived, including two elderly German tourists who played chess in silence the whole time, and one young lady who tirelessly demanded a telephone connection, though it had been explained to her for the third time that the line was down due to the adverse weather and the exchange in town was apparently without power.Aunt Kateřina settled on a bench and declared significantly:“As my late husband used to say—he who sows the wind shall reap the whirlwind!”“And he who goes hiking with Aunt Kateřina ends up in a kiosk with her,” Grandfather added dryly.At that, Saturnin with his inimitable calm opened his rucksack, as if reaching into a magician’s bottomless case, and produced a silver flask of brandy, six elegant glasses, and sandwiches wrapped in monogrammed napkins which, from the smell, contained ham, egg, cucumber, and a mild dose of civilisation.“I had a feeling this might come in handy, sir,” he said to me and poured.While we sat, sipping brandy and watching the fogged kiosk windows turn into watercolours of winter hardship, Saturnin took the floor and began to narrate:“You know, gentlemen, the year before last in the Alps, I had the honour of accompanying a certain Swiss watchmaker who decided to conquer the Matterhorn with second-hand precision. His main problem, however, was not the difficulty of the ascent, but the fact that he suffered from a panic fear of heights. We climbed only as high as the view of his favourite clock face on the tower in Zermatt sufficed. There, he assured all passers-by that the best view of the mountain was actually from the valley, where one could also precisely tell the time for lunch.”Grandfather smirked: “Typical Swiss! He’d rather climb on a chair than admit he’s afraid of heights.”“Precisely, sir,” nodded Saturnin. “And he added that alpine peaks are beautiful, but utterly useless if one cannot tell the exact time.”

Grandfather nodded. “That reminds me of Lieutenant Vinkler. He once got lost in the Jeseníky mountains, but because he had a thermos of rum and two huntresses with him, they didn’t find him for three days, lying in a snowdrift claiming he was researching polar phenomena.”And so we remained there, each with our own story, with a drop of brandy, a sandwich, and the feeling that even in a kiosk plastered with kingfisher advertisements, one can spend a pleasant evening.

The night was cold, but not unpleasant. Milouš eventually fell asleep in a corner of the kiosk covered by a map, and Aunt Kateřina read aloud from a brochure Safe in the Mountains in a tone usually reserved for fairy tales about indomitable deeds. Grandfather jotted a note in his diary, Dr. Vlach pondered the theory of mountain melancholy, and I suspected that Miss Terebová, thinking I was asleep, quietly said into the darkness, perhaps just to herself:“After all, that Jiří wasn’t so impossible at all.”But perhaps I just imagined it.I wriggled gently under the blanket, as if to muffle the thoughts racing through my head like startled deer. After a moment’s hesitation, which contained something of romantic resolve and something of a desperate retreat from the front line, I quietly got up and crept over to Miss Barbora, who was sitting apart, wrapped in a shawl and gazing into the glow of a paraffin lamp.“Miss Barbora…” I began quietly, so as not to startle the evening. “I wanted to apologise. I behaved… well, like a man with more snow in his head than sense. I mean… I behaved stupidly.”She was thoughtfully silent for a moment, then looked at me with a gaze containing more warmth than ice, and smiled.“You really did, Jiří,” she said simply. And added: “But you’re not alone in that.”“May I sit down?” I asked with a gravity I would usually reserve only for a loan application or a life-saving request.“If you can fit under my blanket, then yes,” she replied lightly, but with a smile that would convince the strictest jury to overturn a verdict.And so we sat there side by side, sharing the silence and the warmth, and I no longer know which of us first began to speak of things that are only said at night—about favourite colours, about childhood, about dreams one doesn’t say aloud because they might dissolve.We spoke quietly, as if our words might disturb the slumbering silence of the kiosk. Somewhere in the middle of her story about how she once secretly watered a forgotten orchid in the botanical gardens, I realised we had stopped talking and were just sitting there, leaning against one another.And then we both, somewhat inconspicuously and in complete silence, fell asleep.Above us, the wind raced, the kiosk windows trembled slightly, but inside there was peace. In the morning, each of us would remember this night differently—Aunt Kateřina as a cold adventure, Dr. Vlach as a case of mountain apathy, Milouš as the night he nearly froze—and I… I as the moment when even the hardest avalanche in hearts can melt.

XIV

We Return to the Hotel

In Praise of the Pastry Chef

A Lecture on the Principles of Dynamic Movement on Snow

Morning greeted us with a silence known only to those who have spent a night on a wooden bench between a thermos, a map, and Aunt Kateřina. The snow had hushed, the wind had stilled, and everything was covered in a layer of whiteness reminiscent of a freshly starched tablecloth laid over a restless world.Saturnin, who as usual looked as if he had woken up groomed, fragrant, and perhaps even mildly amused, reached into his rucksack and produced a small metal tin.“For breakfast today, we are serving diplomatic service hardtack. It lasts longer than most political agreements and tastes approximately the same,” he announced solemnly, distributing two boxes of biscuits which Grandfather pocketed for survival.To accompany the biscuits, the kiosk attendant, with the face of a man who no longer intends to convince anyone about the meaning of life today, topped up our mugs with the remaining lukewarm tea. It had the colour of weak beer and the temperature of a melancholy pond, but at that moment it seemed to us a delicious beverage from the royal table.“Strange,” muttered Grandfather, blowing into his mug, “that it’s right here, in a kiosk between a ‘No Sledding’ sign and a dried-up sausage under the counter, that one feels more alive than in most city cafés.”Miss Barbora sat next to me, snuggled in her shawl with a slight smile on her lips. She looked fresh, almost as if she had slept in a rose garden and not between a bench and a box of dusty postcards featuring a mountain without a cable car.“I must say, some nights can magically change one’s opinion of certain people,” she remarked quietly, but with a gaze that momentarily rested on me. “For instance, those who can ski headfirst but, on the other hand, excel at navigating thick fog and human nature alike.”I blushed slightly. “Miss Barbora,” I said, choking a little on my biscuit, “you are being far too indulgent with me.”“Only for today,” she replied. “Tomorrow I might ignore you again. But who knows. Life is change.”Saturnin discreetly rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched. Dr. Vlach was writing something in a notebook titled The Influence of High-Altitude Cold on the Emotionality of Individuals in Crisis Conditions, and Milouš had just realised that a map is not ideal protection against mountain dew.“If the cable car doesn’t run,” declared Grandfather, raising his eyebrows at the cold reality, “we shall have to either descend on foot or have a sleigh sent. I personally recommend the first option. At least we’ll find out who has real lungs and who just has a coat with a fur collar.”“Sir,” said Saturnin, “I can offer three variants. First: a descent on foot, secured by myself and a rope. Second: an improvised sleigh made from two benches, the map, and Aunt Kateřina, if she agrees to steer. Third: to sit here until spring.”“Interesting,” murmured Dr. Vlach without looking up. “An experiment in isolation under extreme conditions—that could yield valuable data. I suggest we first observe the manifestations of panic.”“I’d prefer to return,” piped up Milouš, whose second sock had just become soaked through.Miss Barbora, still snuggled in a blanket, remarked: “I propose that the return to the hotel does not involve any sleighs, improvised aeroplanes, or Milouš as chief navigator.”“I agree,” I nodded. “Especially with the last point.”At that moment, the kiosk door opened slightly and the attendant, in a sweater that remembered the monarchy, peered out.“Gentlemen,” he announced, as if delivering a verdict, “the iron hope is moving.”

The cable car did indeed start running shortly after nine, and all of us, relieved of our worst-case scenarios, began gathering blankets, thermoses, and our dignity.We said goodbye to our temporary fellow lodgers—the German tourists gave us a dignified nod with their chess pieces, the signal-less young lady discarded her tea and for the first time since evening wasn’t calling the exchange—and we packed ourselves into the cable car cabin, which swayed so gently one felt like staying in it even after arrival.Miss Barbora smiled quietly and leaned against me with a trust that would have melted an icicle on the north side of a chapel. She didn’t seem to mind my slightly muddy jacket, nor the minor scratches from the slope where I had, the previous day, not entirely voluntarily rescued a handbag.Aunt Kateřina, swathed in a woollen shawl with the expression of a self-sacrificing Florence Nightingale, was examining Milouš, who was peering sleepily out of the window.“Milouš, dear,” she said worriedly, “you have suspiciously pale cheeks. I hope it’s not a precursor to a chill! As my late František used to say—he who laughs in the mountains often finds himself in a spa a day later.” And she immediately began pulling his cap down over his nose.Grandfather, meanwhile, was speaking to Dr. Vlach in the tone of a physics professor inspecting a power station:“You see, Doctor, a cable car is a beautiful thing. But if it relies on just one power source, it can also be beautifully out of service. I would suggest that this hotel own a backup generator, ideally with four combustion cylinders, that would be impervious to both a north wind and a snowstorm.”“An excellent proposal,” nodded Dr. Vlach. “Psychologically very apt—ensuring technical certainty significantly reduces the incidence of panic reactions.”On the way down, we silently watched the misty peaks disappear behind us and the sun cautiously breaking through the clouds. The cabin swayed gently and the wood underfoot creaked rhythmically like an old player piano.

When we arrived back at the hotel, it was a return to another world—warm, fragrant, equipped with toilet paper and the promise of broth. The porter welcomed us with a smile that suggested the entire kitchen and part of the reception already knew about our nightly refuge.“I hope you enjoyed your excursion,” he said with a professional bow.“Very much,” replied Saturnin. “Especially once we clarified what all can be considered shelter. And what can be drunk under the label ‘tea’.”We returned tired, hungry, slightly chilled, but happy. Although we had originally set out for the beauties of the mountains, we brought back mainly the experience that even a storm has its charm. Especially if one survives it in good company.After the necessary ablutions—which included a bath as warm as a memory of first love, a shave with a razor whose sharpness could rival the editorial pen of a critic from Národní politika, and hair drying with a hotel hairdryer that, after prolonged use, began emitting a sound reminiscent of a tired harmonium—I finally felt like a civilised human being again.Miss Barbora and I had arranged to meet for coffee and cake in the lounge. Precisely as I settled into an armchair upholstered so thoroughly it could survive a tea party during an earthquake, coffee was served to me. It was strong, smelled promising, and had a foam one wouldn’t hesitate to invite to a ball.“This is… excellent,” said Miss Barbora, sniffing the coffee like an experienced connoisseur who has just discovered a new meaning of life.“And the cakes!” she added, biting into a větrník (cream puff). “They really bake with passion here. And butter.”I nodded, for I had just taken a bite of a cream pastry so divine I was considering whether it would be polite to stand up and bow to the pastry chef.“A welcome change… after such a night,” Barbora remarked with a slight smile.“Our well-deserved reward for heroism,” I said modestly.“Without falling spruce trees and snow in our underwear,” she added playfully.

A little further away, Milouš was just trying with great earnestness to describe to Miss Lenka how during the night on the kiosk bench he had “kept watch to protect women and orphans from wolves and bears” and how he had “recognised the approaching storm sooner than the mountain guide and the meteorological service.” Lenka looked at him with an expression that suggested she either truly believed every word or lacked the strength to oppose his narrative.Grandfather, meanwhile, had gone off towards the staircase to find the maintenance man and explain to him where to place the backup generators for the next power outage.

In the dining room, a group of Dr. Vlach’s conference colleagues had gathered around him. One was listening with closed eyes, as if the Doctor were describing the secrets of the human soul, another was zealously writing down every word, and a third was merely nodding in a rhythm that suggested agreement with the existence of the universe as such.“…it’s a fascinating phenomenon,” Vlach was just saying, “that staying in emergency conditions activates in some individuals not only fear, but also latent tendencies towards recitation or singing.”We slipped back into the warmth of the hotel afternoon, each in our own way—some with a cake, some with a map, some with notes on crisis situations. And I with the feeling that a větrník, good coffee, and the presence of Miss Barbora were a combination that could be defined as happiness.

The afternoon in the hotel passed in a peaceful spirit: guests sat about in the lounge, music from the gramophone flowed lazily through the air, and Miss Barbora and I were enjoying another cup of coffee and a strudel that deserved its own review in a gourmet magazine.And then Milouš appeared.In a grey flannel suit which, by his own account, he had “borrowed from a display stand in a boutique,” he burst into the hall, carrying a folded flipchart and under his arm a pile of papers. As he later explained to us, he had decided to organise an impromptu lecture on the “principles of dynamic movement on snow.”His plan, however, encountered two obstacles: first—not a single hotel guest had the slightest interest in attending this training session. Second—the flipchart, which Milouš had brought out from the conference room without the staff’s knowledge, had just been freshly treated with polish.During a dramatic gesture meant to demonstrate how “the centre of gravity transfers during a lunge on snow,” his foot slipped, the flipchart slid from under his hand, and with a hollow thud it crashed directly onto the piano. A moment of horror followed, complemented by the dying sound of strings.The hotelier entered the room just as Milouš was kneeling to right a golden candlestick that had been knocked over in the fall.“Explanation?” came a cold voice.Milouš straightened up, brushed off his trousers, and with the utmost nobility declared:“An academic reconstruction of the fall of a Norwegian instructor from 1912. At no one’s request.”Saturnin, who had just returned from the kitchen with a tray of punch, stopped, nodded his head, and dryly remarked:“Judging by the damage, I’d say the fall was reconstructed with absolute verisimilitude.”Miss Barbora, amused and elegantly nonchalant, leaned towards me:“Couldn’t I ask Milouš to demonstrate the sunrise tomorrow? Perhaps he might manage to break the eastern window in the process.”

XV

Snow, Sun, and Snowmen

Smiles Under a White Sky

The Farewell Dinner

It was Thursday morning. After a light breakfast, which I would call more of a poetic illusion of a morning meal than a substantial start to the day, Miss Barbora invited me to jointly work on improving my downhill skiing skills. To her surprise and my own astonishment, after several runs I was falling in such a way that it almost looked intentional.Dr. Vlach, surrounded by a group of colleagues, uttered a memorable sentence on his way out of the dining room: “Psychiatrists are madmen, and the best of us know it.” He then convinced Grandfather that the hotel would not burn to the ground even without his vigilant supervision and persuaded him to join a trip to the slopes. Grandfather finally let himself be tempted, though he took with him a sketch of how to improve the electrical wiring between the cable car station and the kitchen.Milouš decided to impress Miss Lenka on cross-country skis. Miss Lenka found it exceptionally entertaining, especially when it turned out they didn’t get further than within sight of the hotel. After several futile attempts to move forward, she suggested they rather build a snowman. Milouš agreed to create an artistic work they would name “Icy Apollo.” After an hour’s work, the snowman was shaped rather like a pinecone, but it had a nose made from a red brooch and arms made from men’s suspenders.Aunt Kateřina spent the morning on the veranda, wrapped in a blanket and supplied with a mug of grog. She observed the scenes around her like a general inspector reviewing an army. Watching Milouš, she remarked: “He who laughs at a snowman in his youth will build one for himself in old age.”

The afternoon was marked by final pleasures. The sun was losing its strength, but the snow on the slopes remained firm and sparkled as if trying to convince each of us that it wasn’t yet time to pack our bags.Miss Barbora helped me with my turns, all the while commenting on each of my unsuccessful attempts with a smile, as if it were an artistic happening. When I gazed for a moment towards the peaks, she quietly remarked:“Some people ascend even when it looks like they’re descending.”I didn’t know if she was talking about my skis or about me—but it fit both.Dr. Vlach and Grandfather attempted to ski a red run while engaged in a passionate debate about whether snow has a greater influence on the balance of the body or the soul. Grandfather lost his sketch of the generator network during the run and had to search for it later in the blueberry bushes, while Dr. Vlach noted his conclusions in a notebook titled Psychophysiological Adaptation on the Slope.Milouš and Miss Lenka finished their snowman and christened it with a cup of hot chocolate. Milouš claimed it was a Scandinavian luck ritual, but Saturnin later quietly remarked that Milouš had actually spilled it on himself and was looking for an excuse.As the sun began to set, we slowly returned to the hotel. Aunt Kateřina was still sitting on the veranda, now swaddled in two blankets and with another mug of grog. With a sigh, she raised her eyes to the sky and said:“We leave tomorrow. And as my late František used to say—one only realises the best moments when one’s suitcase is already going down in the elevator.”Miss Barbora noticed Milouš and Lenka’s creation.“What’s his name?” she asked with a smile.“Icy Apollo,” declared Milouš importantly. “He’s a strong, cold type, but with a big heart.”“Yes,” nodded Lenka. “We gave him hot chocolate to make him feel welcome.”“And then you poured it down his collar?” I inquired.“That was a Nordic ritual,” Milouš insisted stubbornly, a spark of improvised folklore lighting in his eyes.Meanwhile, Miss Barbora looked around the snowy meadow cheerfully and suddenly exclaimed: “Jiří, let’s build a snowman too, so Milouš’s won’t be lonely!” She pleaded with the cuteness of a child, which can only be resisted if one is made of stone—and even that would probably roll over on its side in agreement.We immediately set to work, while Barbora ran to the boiler room for coals for the eyes and buttons and pilfered from the lunch leftovers one perfectly crooked carrot, just the kind a snowman deserves for a nose. I set about rolling snowballs with such vigour that for a moment I resembled the first Czech snow-wrestler.The snowman grew beautifully, and when it was finished, Barbora suddenly pulled the hat from my head.“We can’t let our snowman freeze,” she said with feigned severity and jammed it deep onto its forehead.“And you don’t mind if I get cold?” I asked with mock hurt.“If you’re good, I might knit you a new one,” she replied with a smile that would thaw an icicle.In the end, I did take the hat off the snowman’s head—citing my own thermal equilibrium—and stuck it on my ears, as every honest snowman-slayer deserves. Then, holding hands and with a bit of snow in our hair, we returned to the hotel.Behind us remained two snowmen—one with the nobility and coals of a coal baron, the other with a brooch, suspenders, and a slight hint of Scandinavian sauce on its back.And somewhere in the distance, the wind gently blew away the last snowflake of the day, as if quietly remarking: “Now that was a really successful Thursday.”

At the hotel, we were greeted by an atmosphere that was quiet but not sad—rather filled with a kind of unspoken agreement that something beautiful was slowly ending. We sat in the social lounge, drank tea, and watched the lights reflecting off the snow-covered roofs.“Sir,” said Saturnin, “some days deserve to be framed in memory. Today was one of them.”And I just nodded, because I knew he was right.In the evening, Grandfather surprised us all by inviting us to a formal dinner. The place was reserved in a small private dining room of the hotel restaurant, where a fire crackled in the hearth and the tables were set with such care that not even an imperial court marshal need be ashamed of it. Everyone was invited—Dr. Vlach and his colleagues, Miss Barbora, Saturnin, myself, even the cable car owner… and Aunt Kateřina, whom Grandfather snagged at the last moment with the words: “In unity there is strength, and if nothing else, at least there will be something to refute.”Grandfather made a formal toast in which he paid tribute to the mountains, electric propulsion, common sense (which, he noted, is rarer in the mountains than oxygen), and above all, good company. He ended his speech with the sentence: “May the return from the mountains to the valley be as dignified as the first run on morning powder—and at least twice as dry.”Aunt Kateřina was not to be outdone and rose with her own contribution: “In life, one needs three things: a good suitcase, strong nerves, and someone to remind you where you left your coat. Thank you for guiding me through this mountain of life with honour—even if sometimes without a suitcase.”Saturnin stood up, bowed, and dryly remarked: “Mrs. Kateřina, I think even our cable car would bow before your endurance—if it had knees, of course.”Whereupon I also stood up, thanked Grandfather for the wonderful holiday, Saturnin for persuading me to participate, and Miss Barbora… well, I thanked Miss Barbora with a look that—I hope—said everything.At that moment, we noticed that Milouš had disappeared. He had probably gone to say goodbye to Miss Lenka, for we heard the faint jingling of sleigh bells and a distant: “Wait, Lenka, I wanted to…”

The remaining guests smiled, laughed, and reminisced. It was an evening none of those present would forget. And when Saturnin, to conclude, distributed a small package of homemade biscuits “for the journey,” Aunt Kateřina tearfully burst into tears—or, more probably, a biscuit crumb fell into her eye.The dinner proceeded in a spirit of good cheer, memories of the past days, and mild overeating, which can only be excused by the fact that it was the last.“Mr. Hotelier,” Dr. Vlach addressed his table neighbour, “I must say your chef has a talent not only for roast knee but also for the psychological stabilisation of a group. After such a dessert, even a melancholic would change his diagnosis.”“Thank you,” laughed the hotelier. “I operate on the principle that sugar alleviates nervousness. And whipped cream takes care of everything else.”Saturnin leaned towards me and added in a half-whisper: “By that logic, Aunt Kateřina would need a cake the size of a cable car.”Aunt Kateřina, who happened to overhear only the last word, straightened up. “Cable cars are an achievement of the modern age, but one shouldn’t rely on them more than on one’s own legs.”“Your attitude towards technology is admirably constant,” replied Saturnin with a slight bow. “Steadfast as a north wind over the ridges.”“He who bows to the wind catches a chill more easily,” retorted Aunt Kateřina with proverbial cadence.Grandfather, meanwhile, launched into a passionate debate with one of Dr. Vlach’s colleagues, trying to prove that electricity is an undervalued quantity and that if the cable car were powered according to his design, “it could generate electricity for the entire area on the return journey.”Miss Barbora sat next to me, listening to the conversations around her with a gentle smile and occasionally giving me a look that said more than words. When I tried to start a conversation about the taste of the dessert, she replied: “Caramel can be bitter or sweet—it depends on time and temperature. Much like people.”“Exactly,” I nodded, though I wasn’t sure if she was talking about the pastry or about me.“Some caramelise earlier,” she added, “and some take their time.”The evening continued in a pleasant spirit, the hotel’s violin-piano duo played in the background, and we all subconsciously felt that with this evening, more than just one day was ending. A chapter was closing. And tomorrow another would begin—who knows where.

XVI

Farewells with Grace

Milouš Minus Half His Kit

We Depart

Return to Prague

Morning arrived with a gentle melancholy that hung in the air alongside the scent of morning coffee and the feeling that something pleasant was ending. As the hotel awoke to the final day of our stay, everyone packed their things—some with the meticulousness of a cartographer, others with the speed of an evacuation.I, after a brief farewell to my room, Saturnin, and Grandfather, handed my train ticket to Dr. Vlach.“You deserve a more comfortable departure than a morning train with coal dust outside the window,” I said with a smile. “And I… have an invitation I cannot refuse.”Miss Barbora stood by a red Tatra as if from another world. She wore a travelling coat that looked as if it remembered only the finest journeys, and in her eyes was a calm one acquires when one knows the direction is right. We got in, and the engine purred like a contented cat. We waved to the others, and the Tatra set off down the road towards Zábřek, heading home—or perhaps towards the beginning of something else.

Meanwhile, Grandfather, Saturnin, and Dr. Vlach occupied the morning train. Grandfather with the expression of a transport commander, Saturnin with a leather suitcase and a look that suggested it contained, besides pyjamas, a chess set and a fully functional nail gun, and Dr. Vlach, who noted in his pad: “Observed collective disquiet during farewells, mildly dampened by marmalade.”The afternoon train then carried Aunt Kateřina and Milouš away. Aunt Kateřina spouted proverbs until the last moment, most of which ended with words like “timely packing” and “orderliness makes friends.” Milouš looked nervous. Not from the departure, but because he couldn’t find half his belongings.“Saturnin!” he hissed through his teeth when he discovered, in place of a hat, a bent brochure titled The Art of Cross-Country Skiing for Advanced Skiers. His scarf was wound around a chair, his gloves in the toilet cabinet, and his ski goggles… well, they were later found on the statue of St. Bernard in front of the hotel.At the station, they waved to all present. Milouš carefully took his seat, Aunt Kateřina checked for draughts, and the train set off.

The train carrying Grandfather, Saturnin, and Dr. Vlach arrived in Prague precisely on schedule, which Grandfather commented on with the words:“Either someone’s patience finally ran out, or the engine driver forgot we were supposed to be delayed.”At the station, the trio said goodbye to the psychiatrist colleagues, who headed off to the trams with relief, where no one was waiting for them with a brochure titled Everything That Can Be Saved with a Circuit Breaker. Dr. Vlach declared he would immediately begin writing a professional article “On the Psychological Influence of the Cable Car on Collective Consciousness.” Grandfather headed home, where he reportedly intends to draft a technical study on the topic “Power Supply for Mountain Huts Under Conditions of Extreme Disregard for Engineering Recommendations.” Saturnin remarked that it was time to restock supplies of sardines, pocket warmers, and optimistic pronouncements.

A few hours later, Aunt Kateřina and Milouš also arrived in Prague. The journey proceeded in relative calm—except for the moment when Aunt Kateřina decided to bring out a homemade strudel and distribute it through the carriage with pathos, as if offering the message of St. Catherine.“People should share goodness, even if the crumb is soft!” she declared, offering a slice to an elderly lady who had fallen asleep the moment Milouš began recounting his artistic conception of snowmen.At home, Milouš tallied his damages and losses—missing socks, a mysteriously vanished polo neck, and a rucksack full of what purported to be a collection of mountain talismans. Meanwhile, Saturnin left a note at Milouš’s flat:“Lost and Found. According to the schedule, items will be returned gradually—as in life. With regards: your guardian in plain clothes.”

And I? I arrived in Prague a day later—with Barbora by my side, the red Tatra parked in front of the house, and the feeling that perhaps everything—albeit somewhat unexpectedly—had turned out exactly as it should.

And so ended our winter expedition—with a slight sadness, a few snow-dusted suitcases, but above all with the knowledge that it had been worth it.

XVII

Of Things One Dares Not Pack

Life back in Prague resumed its familiar pace. The trams were still crowded, the newspapers just the same, and Mrs. Suchánková was still hanging her laundry out into the courtyard in a manner suggesting she wished to address a wider cultural community. The painters had reappeared in the flat, this time promising they would really be finished "in two days," which I noted in my calendar in pencil, with a question mark.

Grandfather sent me a postcard with a brief message:"Electricity is a beautiful thing. But I am more pleased that you have finally learned to turn. With respect, Your Grandfather."

From Saturnin, I received an envelope containing a photograph of the kiosk where we had spent the night. Under the picture was written:"Should the urge to be a hero ever overcome you again—please, remember this bench. P.S.: Miss Terebová was looking for you. I recommend being at home. And clean-shaven in good time."

Dr. Vlach published an article in the psychiatric society's journal titled "Sleep on a Bench and its Influence on Egocentric Introspection in Latent Neurotics," where I was mentioned by my initials, but with a description that identified me unequivocally.

Milouš... well, Milouš sent out postcards of the snowman, under which was written:"Icy Apollo – my legacy to the mountains and to women." Miss Lenka, apparently, only replied on the second attempt. The first postcard lacked any text.

And Miss Barbora?She called me one day to say that dinner at the U Modrého jelena (At the Blue Stag) restaurant might not be a bad idea.I arrived ten minutes early to hide the flowers, and five minutes later I was already telling myself that perhaps some mountain experiences really can change a person.Or—at the very least—they can teach someone who can't turn that sometimes it's best to let oneself be led.

XVIII

I am aware that every proper narrative ought to conclude with a wedding, and I am glad that I do not have to disappoint my readers in this important particular.

A short time thereafter, in the Church of the Assumption of the Virgin Mary, Miss Lenka was married to a wealthy fellow-passenger from the return journey from the mountains.

From the original Saturnin by Zdeněk Jirotka:

"Factory owner Dubský sat in his luxurious study and greeted the accountant Sláma coldly. His round eyes looked at the clerk without excitement and occasionally turned to the face of the onyx clock on the desk. A lit cigar lay in the ashtray, and a bluish ribbon of smoke rose calmly in the heated air. The entire personality of factory owner Dubský was, at that moment, the embodiment of calm."

A Word from the Author to Conclude

At this point, I would like to express my sincere thanks, along with a certain measure of humility. The book you have just finished reading would never have come into being without the inspiration of the unique humour, style, and linguistic refinement of Zdeněk Jirotka. His Saturnin is a book I have carried in my head and heart since my youth. I would like to apologise to him for having borrowed, in several places, literal formulations and motifs from his work. This was done out of respect, not disrespect.

I also thank my friends and loved ones, who patiently shared with me the most varied anecdotes, observations, and sometimes even their own unintended missteps, which I have taken the liberty of slightly adapting and incorporating into the story. Your sense of humour and perspective were irreplaceable to me.

Although this book is a work of fiction, some parts of it may resemble real situations or persons. This is not a coincidence—but nor is it proof. Any resemblance is either intentional or purely coincidental, depending on whom you ask.

If references to publicly known figures or historical events appear in the text, please know that I have striven for factual accuracy. Nevertheless, this is a literary work, which occasionally dares to prioritise style and rhythm over absolute exactitude.

A very personal thank you goes to Ukrainian Railways and the RegioJet company, namely Mr. Radim Jančura, for the comfortable writing conditions during the long journey from Kyiv. Many sentences, observations, and dialogues came to life between Kyiv and Brno—perhaps precisely because gazing out of a train window makes it easier to immerse oneself in imaginings of other times and other lives.

Thank you to all who have chosen to enter this story as readers. It has been an honour to guide you through it.

With respect,Tomáš Dubský (the similarity in names is purely coincidental)

Table of Contents

I

II

III

IV

V

IV

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

From the original Saturnin by Zdeněk Jirotka:

A Word from the Author to Conclude