English / Sample translations /

/Translated by Andrée Collier Záleská/

The Wig

Mrs. Theodaris was a tiny old woman of Greek origins, whose late husband had made millions in real estate. His great sense for valuable property was confirmed by the piece of land that he chose for his weekend house. The villa stood on the very tip of a headland, surrounded by the ocean and separated from the mainland by a wild-looking wall of greenery.
The waves and the wind were so intense here that I worried about the glass side of the house, although for as long as I went there not only the walls, but even the iron garden furniture on the private beach, withstood the extremes of weather.
When the old businessman died his wife moved permanently from New York to the Hamptons.
Mrs. Theodaris belonged to the old school that believed that servants were a lazy lot, and that it was necessary to be firm with them. Thanks to her generally tender heart she masked her attitude with an understanding smile.
She waited for me behind the fortified door, which had such a complex alarm-code that I was relieved not to have to remember it myself. Her interest in me didn’t end there, however, and she accompanied throughout the sprawling house. She wanted to be certain that my vacuum cleaner reached even the under the heavy cushions in the library, and that not one stray water mark remained even at the very top of the glass shower-stall. I welcomed her inquisitive company simply out of a need for contact. From the moment I came in and pulled on my rubber gloves, I was resolved to work myself to death so that not one tiny speck of dust would remain in the house.
I worked harder for my pay there than anywhere else. At the end of the day Mrs. Theodaris would sometimes offer me a slice of cake and cup of tea, and then at the door hand me three crumpled twenties. Even though I had worked hard, it wasn’t easy to accept them. The expression that came with that gesture resembled that of someone having their nails pulled out, or their spine broken, and I simply didn’t understand why. I’m sure I would have lowered the price if I hadn’t felt the threat of Gloria’s return. I could truly imagine the astronomical expenditures that the old woman had with that house, whereas I was able to be quite thrifty.
Cleaning that house took four hours and was comparable to a moderately hard workout. By the end I was scarcely able to stand up straight.
“Martina,” she whispered to me one day. “I think I should tell you that…you’re really sweating. Here in America women use a spray—it’s called deodorant.” She was small compared to me, and when she leaned back her head to look up at me her wig slipped down comically over her eyebrows.
Deodorant. She’s telling me this, when after this year’s winter I could easily join the group of swimmer who brave the Vltava River each New Year’s Day. Me! In ninth grade the girls made fun of me, saying that I was trying to look like singers on television by shaving my armpits. I did a lot of work to edify those girls. Me! I’m the one who has been carrying personal items in a purse since the eight grade. Me! I taught myself how to make graceful strides in six-inch heels. Me! I always set the fashion trend (at least in smaller groups, such as my class, or the wagon of the train I happened to be on.) After four hours of hard labor, she says this to me?!
I moved over to the bucket of dirty water. A long list of arguments that rendered her comment absurd rolled out in my head, but in order to convince her I would have to display my true nature—elegant and inactive. She would have to know my past, and I’m just glad that she doesn’t.
I poured the dirty water down the drain and put the bucket away in the pantry. I put my diamond watch back on—when I was cleaning I wore it around my belt.
“Deodorant?” I replied at last. “I’ll try to find some.”



Memphis

After a busy time in Prague we began traveling for various film preparations.
Just before Christmas we settled into a rented house on the banks of the Mississippi in Memphis—the city of great barbecue, of the blues and Elvis Presley. Here I really saw for myself how many different faces America has. This southern incarnation was darker, relaxed, mellow, and very devout.

I was completely absorbed with constantly meeting new people, moving from place to place, and struggling with my still-imperfect English. I tried to complete Milos’s tasks, and I looked forward to evening, when we would sit in a local pub, tired and hungry.
My responsibilities included a wide range of small tasks which were meant to relieve Milos of any obligations outside of the film. I managed most of his mail, made reservations, ran the household, ordered cars and checked plane tickets. It really wasn’t too much. Or rather, it wouldn’t have been too much for a person who was used to certain level of responsibility.
Arrange things and check things—me! I’m the one who didn’t send off her rent check for six months simply because there wasn’t a parking space in front of the post office. I’m the one who has managed to acquire a convenient deafness to every type of alarm clock.
On the other hand, I knew that if I was unwilling to change I might just as well have stayed in Brno.
Just before the filming started the actors came, and Courtney Love—wild, strange and thin (so thin!)—was parading around our house. She had lost twenty pounds since the casting and she kept asking whether she should lose more weight—as if it were a matter of choice.
I was also trying to lose weight. I didn’t eat dinner, but then long after midnight I would wander into the kitchen, irritable and frustrated that I couldn’t find anything to eat, let alone something tasty, filling and dietetic (obviously not something that involves three courses!)
For a long time I tried to avoid Courtney, because she stuck me as inscrutable, and I couldn’t understand her English. (Later I was comforted to discover that she really does use a lot of made up words in bizarre combinations, and that she speaks so quickly that I doubt her work could be dubbed even in Japanese!) In time I came to know the more approachable side of her—her sincerity and openness was brought out by my total lack of interest in her controversial marriage (or really in the whole American rock scene.) The truth was more banal: I had always been convinced that rock-music was just the sickly younger brother of pop music—one who lacked vocal talent and harmonic sense. (Of course, I had also long thought that fidelity was just a sort of moral comfort for those without other options!)
Courtney gradually told me many fascinating things about her life, and the most interesting part was that they remained fascinating even when it was clear she had made them up. She was definitely not one of those people who bores her friends, and the press, by repeating the same stories over and over.
In return, I gave her a brief version of my own story, from which she naturally remembered my famous ex-boyfriend, who in her version turned into a sort of Czech Kurt Cobain. (Sorry Karel!)

We stayed in Memphis for four months, and in that whole time we may have been in the house alone for one week. There were always friends, relations and acquaintances staying with us, and it was there that I again tried to learn to cook. My first success was Moravian meatballs (eventually followed by sauerkraut and dumplings.) The Memphis ribs were green with envy that night.