English / Sample translations /

/translated by Elsa Morrison/

Fatherspeak

I always imagined sirloin steak as a kind of treasure (A five-year-old boy)

         "Cherub," said father sentimentally, leaning over the baby's cot. "Life lies before you. I wonder what awaits you in the big world?"
          "Tomorrow is Saturday. In the morning you can take him for a walk."
          "Me?"
          "Who else? I have to -" and mother reeled off all the things she had to do next morning till father stopped listening. "Will you do that for me?" she scared him.
          He stopped being sentimental and began to think of all the things that would be different from now on and how these changes would affect him who was now so set in his ways with advancing years. Would it be enough if he took his ashtray to the lavatory? Or would he have to give up the men's choir rehearsals without which he couldn't imagine Monday nights? Would he have to find another job to be able to feed another hungry mouth? The calm tenor of his life was so disturbed that it seemed to spill out of him and leave an emptiness behind that would always be resound with echoes of mother's demands and a baby's cries.
          "It won't do you any harm, you can be thinking of your work, he'll be sleeping, I'll feed him first," this father heard from a great distance.
          "Can he not sleep here?" father turned in the direction of the voice.
          "He needs fresh air."
          "I could manage it next Saturday," he said trying at least to redeem tomorrow.
          "Quiet, please! You've wakened him. - Come and get some nice milk," mother stopped whispering and reverted to babytalk. She took the baby from the cot and positioned herself so that Father was in the way. When he saw her concentrating on weighing her left and right breasts to decide which one she should give to the baby first, he felt useless and went off to bed. He did not manage to fall asleep until nearly morning, just before he was brutally wakened by a stream of instructions about the baby's feeding times, when his nappies should be changed, in what kind of weather his covers should be put on, what streets he must be sure to avoid, where th by shv ristov aftns to partn and shiftn - do you understand?
          No I don't, he said to himself rebelliously. I'm not doing these things instead of what I want to do. Say what you like, I don't understand a word. Father gritted his teeth as though that would stop up his ears from inside, swallowed his coffee, got dressed and took charge of the pram with his first-born son. He left the house and the maternal instructions behind but even so his mind remained blank. He felt nothing but such a destructive hatred that if the baby's mother could have imagined it she would never have entrusted him with the child. "I've got what I wanted. Has it been worth it? A moment of pleasure and a life shot to hell! What are you grinning at?" He regarded his son. "If you could at least talk it wouldn't be so boring! Why can't we wait till you're getting married to be introduced? Then you will need a father's advice. At the moment I'm nothing to you, you're just keeping me back! But from what? From what, damn it? What was it I wanted? Why can't I remember?" He looked helplessly round the park.
          At that point our eyes met. That Saturday morning I had been sitting at my table near the open door looking for an idea. Suddenly I saw him stop and stiffen like a hunting dog, narrow his eyes and fix his gaze on me. He couldn't possibly see me, outside the sun was blazing down and inside the pub there wasn't a single light on. Then he made a decision. Very quietly, as if trying to leave the bedroom without wakening his wife, he pushed the pram inside under the low smoke-blackened ceiling.
          I have my own way of protecting my privacy. I know how to arrange things on the table to look as if there was no room for anyone else. I know how to put on such an expression that nobody dares speak to me. I tried it with him - and at first I confess I did not recognise in him my long-awaited inspiration - but it made no impression on him. Is anyone sitting here, he whispered. Casting an anxious eye on the quilt he stopped the pram as near the table as possible and sat down without letting the chair make the usual noise as it was pulled across the floor. Then for the first time he became aware of my notebook, diary, open book and my cigarettes - and without apology he swept everything out of range with his hands and elbows. The waiter was just passing, the father raised his forefinger, immediately put it to his lips and, as silently as the sun setting over a lake, beer was set down on the area he had cleared.
          "Cherub", said the waiter leaning over the pram. "A boy, eh?" And as if that were the only possibility he did not wait for an answer but went on to the next tables.
          "What's his name?" I said instead of a greeting.
          "Milan."
          The father took a deep draught of his beer, rocked the pram and with his beer enjoyed everything the pub had to offer: the hole burnt in the tablecloth, the pepper and salt on a plate between us, the flies round the lamps, the folk sayings on the beer mats (Hunger is thirst in disguise) and on the wall in German script (Better warm beer than a cold Fräulein), Mr Maršík in whose glass a poisonous green was spreading like an octopus, a jacket left on the coatrack, the toilet door that wouldn't shut properly, the cork from the champagne bottle that had rolled under the seat - he gazed at them lovingly, the way we look at the beauty of our native land, and in his mind, I would swear, violins were playing. I now realised that this father had been sent me from heaven and without a word I gave the waiter to understand that his beer was to go on my slate. He was completely oblivious to all this. It wasn't until the waiter removed the ashtray that he seemed to come out of his dream: "Is it noon already?"
          "Time flies here!" I said reaching in my pocket for my wallet.
          "Don't bother. Anyway we'll be seeing each other again."
          "Will you be here again on Saturday?"
          "I'm here every day."
          "I'll take you at your word then. Next time it's on me." He stood up and hurried away. I had to call him back for the pram.



          "You´ve had a great time today, boys," mother greeted them. Father had to turn this sentence over in his head several times before he came to the conclusion it was meant as a compliment. His bad conscience was getting in the way of his hearing.
          "You see how quickly you´ve got used to it," she said with a smile.
          "You can get used to anything," he said trying to sound peevish not to arouse suspicion.
          "You've found your own way of enjoying it," she did not know what she was saying.
          "A man can get used to other things," he said truthfully.
          "Anyway it was high time. You need fresh air more than the boy." Mother leaned over the pram. "He smells of smoke."
          Father's heart stopped. "It's the town!" he improvised. "Before you get back home from the countryside you have to come through the town where there are so many chimneys, exhaust fumes and people smoking. As if the countryside didn't exist. That's what you´re always saying anyway."
          "And you would never believe me."
          The baby opened his little mouth and began making sucking movements.
          "Look, Daddy, see how hungry we are! The fresh air has certainly done its work! You must have enjoyed it too. Do you think he would have enjoyed this so much if you had stayed at home without any fresh air?"
          Father acknowledged that mother was right.
          "Tomorrow is Sunday. You can do it again. The weather forecast is good."
          "Even if it weren't," he said eagerly. "We won't melt!"
          "Daddy you astonish me!" she whispered across the little pink head sucking away at her breast.



          I couldn't help laughing when he told me this tale. It confirmed our friendship. After that we met every Saturday and Sunday at The Hogshead, we talked about everything under the sun, chiefly about women. No, he was not complaining: he had no reason to. Evidently, his wife must really have fallen in love with him again since he had turned out to be such a selfless father.
          "You're walking now!" I said to him by way of greeting. The child looked up at me but his little hand slipped out of his father's and the little shoes tripped on the doorstep, the boy fell and burst out crying.
          "Up you get, you're all right! You're a big boy now, aren't you? Let me see. I'll kiss it better." Father set him back on his feet.
          "Don't cry," I said trying to comfort him, feeling that I was partly to blame for his fall. "I'll buy you something nice. They have ice-cream here!"
          "Careful," the father scowled. "He's beginning to talk."
          "Already! You must be pleased."
          "Worried rather," he sat down. "As long as he couldn't speak he couldn't give me away at home. Now I'll have to give up this double life. I'm afraid this is the last time I'll be here."
          "Don't say that!" This gave me a scare. From the depths of my being I was afraid that this would be the end of my brilliant idea, that once again I would be alone with infelicitous words which always come unstuck from the things I was trying to attach them to and that things would again remain unexpressed and incomprehensible.
          "You realize I'm in a dreadful situation," he explained. "Sooner or later he's going to ask where we are and pass on my answer to my wife. If it were something I'd only done once I might hope she'd turn a blind eye but you know yourself I've been coming here for a year, week after week, every Saturday and Sunday! A hundred days! She'd never forgive me!, It's a wonder it has not come out yet."
          "Don't worry," I said more to comfort myself than him, "he can't give away more than you give away to him."
          "And what am I supposed to say when he points his sticky little finger at the beer glass and asks what it is?"
          "If you take my advice you'll tell him it's a bladderwort."
"Bladder...?"
          "Or a toadstool. Sometimes called mushrooms." ”Why of all things – ”
          "Or a squirrel. Whatever you like. But then you'll have to stick to it. Children' memory can be dangerous."
          "I couldn't do that."
          "Of course you could! You said yourself your wife had her own way with words that was different from yours and that it took you months before you learned to talk in such a way that she understood you. "
          "But - "
          "No buts! Go on - or else! Your future is at stake! Drink to it, man - "
          The words were hardly out of my mouth when two glasses appeared in front of us.
          "What's that?" said a voice from the other side of the table.
          Father paled.
          "The glasses have the name of the fruit on them. You can call them whatever you like!" I reminded him.
          The boy stared at the golden belly of the glasses and repeated his question.
          "They are... they are swallows," father said at a venture. Then he went quiet as if expecting the world to collapse around him.
          But all remained quiet, only the boy unperturbed lisped, "Swawwows."
          Small hands reached for the schnapps glasses but our hands were quicker. "Now you've frightened them away," I explained. We clinked glasses and knocked back our drinks.
          "Aaahr!" said father expressing his pleasure.
          "Whirr!" I corrected him. "They've flown away to warmer climes!"
          "It's strange," father whispered, "for a whole year I've never had any qualms of conscience. Why does it suddenly seem wrong when nothing has basically changed?"
          "The first step is always easy. What's difficult is keeping on. But there's no turning back now."
          "Do you think so?"
          "By giving something a name you have gone from the implicit to the explicit. There's no going back. But don't worry, sooner or later words for things will occur to you of their own accord. After all we say This is a table, but if it really was a table, it couldn't also be messa like in Spanish or Tisch, like in German, at the same time. Only by using these words we have the impression that we understand things, that we understand something of the world. But if it isn't a table anyway why can't we call it anything at all: a tree stump perhaps, or a manger - It's time to go," even I was surprised. "The main thing is not to give yourself away at home."



          Mother would be sure to be waiting. It was not difficult to imagine that family lunch.
          "You were a long time in the fresh air today! Now you can have some nice soup!" she sits her son in his high chair. "Are you going to sup it yourself? - All right, enjoy your lunch boys. Where on earth have you been?"
          "Tounty."
          "In the country? Clever boy! And what did you see in the tounty?"
          "Swawwows."
          "What did you say?"
          "Swallows," says father helpfully.
          "Swallows? And what were they doing?"
          "Whirr - "
          "That's right, they went whirr!" Mother could not be more amazed at the boy's command of language!
          "That's because he has something to talk about," she says to father. "With every step he discovers something new."
          Father is well aware of that.
          "What else was there?"
          "A mushwoom."
          "Mushroom," repeats father to make sure mother understands.
          "Why didn't you bring it back? I would have put it in the soup." "It was the poisonous kind, Mummy. A toadstool."
          "And Daddy knew what it was?"
          "Daddy killed it for me."
          "What's that you said? Who did he kill?"
          Father hastens to explain. "Adders".
          "There were adders in the park?"
          "We went as far as the woods today. We already know the park - it's not far from there to the woods."
          "Don't you think that's too far?" says mother becoming serious. "If you're going to take him into rough country I don't know if I'll let you go again."
          "Do you hear that, son? Mummy likes the fresh air but she doesn't like bad weather! She'd like to have an adventurous family, but will not allow any adventures! That's women for you, son, at least you know now."
          Mother blushes. "He's got plenty of time for that. Now time for bye-byes. Poor wee thing you're rubbing your eyes."
          Mother puts the child in his cot and returns to father all emotional.
          "You are wonderful. I am amazed how much he knows about the countryside. I didn't think even you knew anything like as much! I'm really grateful to you Daddy. When you are with him I can have a bit of a rest or read so that I'm not just slaving over a hot stove. Anyway it will be worth your while: you won't have a dull, stupid wife to come home to. By the way do you realize you haven't had your usual flu recently?"
          "Of course I do. I have been looking after myself."
"You're a real man," says mother fluttering her eyelids.



          "Head forester, are there still any flocks of birds?"
          "But we don´t want any more swallows," said father.
          "Swifts then."
          The waiter brought two small brandies.
          "We should be home while it's still light. So that we don't get lost. It looks as if there's going to be a storm and it rains twice as hard in the woods."
          "Eleven o'clock will be the crucial time," I said looking at the ceiling like a weather forecaster.
          Meanwhile the child had finished his lemonade. "Can I pick more daisies?"
          "Better not, sonny. You would just kill more adders."
          "I'll show you where there are bilberries. Go to the waterfall it's black with them there," and I sent the boy to the counter for sweets.
          "On the way back bring some twigs. We'll make a fire -" Father broke off for we were now alone. "I'd like to thank you," he said in a different tone. "Thanks to you this had been a great time for me, not just with you here but at home too. My wife and I have never been so happy."
          "Be careful. Now that there are so many of these words you'd be better to make yourself a dictionary." That was experience speaking.
          "I'm afraid she'd find it when she was tidying up."
          "You could leave it here. I'd fill in the meanings for you and I'll always test you on it before you go home."
          "Why are you being so good to me?"
          "If you need a reason you can say that we men must stick together. Look out he's back," I muttered out of the corner of my mouth.
          The boy climbed smartly on to his chair and began crunching his sweets.
          "Can you hear the silence?" I said continuing our conversation.
          "The pine cones are burning well," said father remembering the cigarette he had just lit.
          "And they smell wonderful! Take a deep breath!"
          The waiter brought the menu to the table. Father pensively quoted a verse about falling leaves.
          "Look," he said. "Deer! That's a rarity today! Before the war there were bears here too. My father told me about them. But I've never seen them before. - Every day some animal species disappears." He showed the boy all the items that were scored out. "Here you can see only what's left from Monday."
          "Unfortunately we have to go." said father with a sigh when I had positioned myself so that he could read it with me. "Mother is waiting with our lunch."



          This was the last time we met in the pub. The next Saturday he did not turn up and he did not come on Sunday either. I imagined what might have happened, indeed, I could see it on the wall of the pub as if on a film screen. The boy says good night to his mother, she turns from the sink, dries her hands and kisses the boy on the forehead. She looks somewhat ominous.
          "Are you angry?" pipes up the boy.
          "Not with you."
          Father comes in to the kitchen.
          "Have you had dinner?" He looks around. "Why didn't you call me?"
          Mother dries her hands again and opens a drawer in the kitchen table. She takes out a piece of paper and holds it in front of Dad. "Can you explain this?"
          It is a picture nicely painted by a child's hand of the inside of The Hogshead pub.
          Father stalls for time. "Is this yours?" he says looking meaningfully at the boy.?
          "It's called With Daddy in the Woods," says mother.
          No point denying it. Father sinks on to a chair and waits for the explosion.
          "For three years we've been talking at cross purposes!" she bursts out.
          "And we've never got on so well, if you remember!" Father tries to make a joke of it. Not a hope!
          "Do you realise he'll be going to nursery school after the summer holidays?
          "He'll catch up, children find language easy. I´m making him a dictionary," says father proudly but this makes no impression on mother. Quite the reverse, it seems as if a fresh explosion is brewing. "Go to bed, Milan dear, tomorrow we'll go to the country," he promises without thinking.
          "You're not going anywhere!" she explodes. "Go to bed."
"And can Daddy tell me a story?"
          "There have been enough stories! Bed! " Mother whisks the boy off to the bedroom. Before father has time to pour himself a brandy she is back. She shuts the door, takes the bottle from father, hangs up her apron and sits down. "Now tell me the truth."
          He did but to no avail.
          "You have ruined his health!" she said.
"Have you seen any sign of that?"
          "It will show up with age."
          "Then there will only be the infirmities of old age."
          She did not smile.
          She did not answer.
          "In the pub when a drowned man is mentioned it means a pickled sausage and in the country? Which is the lesser evil? "
          Finally she gulped." At the very least you've been lying to me for three years."
          "Why would I do that? I have just spent three of the happiest years of my life with you. Now I really will deceive you if you are going to be like that with me."
          "You've been deceiving me and the child!"
          "How do you make that out?"
          "Did you not tell him you were communing with nature?"
          "Well weren't we? Do you think nature means all kinds of weather? Only you could think that. We have a different kind of nature. That's why you don't understand us!"
          He should not have said that. Now she burst into tears.
          And here am I suffering from a bad conscience having caused two decent people to be miserable. I can't leave them like that. After all, I have his card with his home address. I'll buy a bunch of flowers and go and confess.



          Father came to the door.
          "What a surprise! We're just having lunch. Won't you join us?"
          "No thank you, I haven't come for lunch. I'm sorry if I've come at a bad time. Every Saturday I've waited to see if you'd appear. I blame myself for causing you any trouble. I would like to offer your wife a small token of my sincere remorse - "
          "No need to apologise, but a woman will certainly not refuse flowers. Please come in. Don't take off your shoes - "
          And so I went in, pushed from behind more like a puppet than an author. "How do you do," I stammered, "I am that wicked person whose foolish idea has threatened your domestic bliss - "
          The mother stood up, eyes shining, offered her hand to be kissed, accepted the flowers and that maternal smile that happily married women keep for bachelors never left her face as she said, "I am delighted to meet you. I was afraid I would never have the opportunity to thank you."
          "To thank me? I have caused you a lot of trouble - "
          "No harm done provided you learn from it. The more languages you know the better person you are."
          I couldn't make this out. What languages?
          "It always bothered me that we did not understand each other when we loved each other. Until one time Daddy was again shouting at me (when you don't know the language you at least shout) asking me why I bought so many unnecessary things and I shouted back that I bought only what we needed most because he didn't earn enough for non-essentials. At that point a voice from Milan's cot said, ´When Daddy says non-essentials he means oranges. When Mummy says non-essentials she means more translations of Hamlet.´ His very words, would you believe it? If it weren't for him I wouldn´t have known how many words have a different meaning for father and me: cleanliness, health, late, morning, joke, work, cold - It was high time somebody interpreted for us."
          Mother brought another plate and served soup.
          "Enjoy you meal."
          I didn't need a second invitation.