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  • No One in the Street
  • Lenka Reinerova (bio)
    Translated by Gitta Honegger

The morning was beautiful. Beautiful as if it wanted to herald one of those days that continue to resonate in us for a long time like the chiming of bells. A nearly Italian-blue sky arched over the bridges, and the water in the River Vltava glistened gaily as if it were still flowing through meadows instead of through a metropolis with all its garbage, foul smells, and loud noises.

A morning like this is quite exhilarating. I had to "go into the city" as we say in Prague, when we are heading downtown, but otherwise I had an almost free day ahead of me. In the evening I had an interpreting assignment, but since I was very familiar with the subject matter, there wasn't much to prepare. Disturbing and painful as that particular job would be, I tried to keep it off my mind on this bright morning.

The trolley I boarded was covered with pictures of lilies of the valley promoting the pleasures of a breath-refreshing chewing gum. Usually, I get annoyed by that sort of transformation of public transportation into advertisement vehicles. I don't appreciate having to squeeze myself through a packed car while its exterior walls feature the slim, freely bopping legs of young women advertising pantyhose, or, worse, having to get into a car picturing desert sand with a camel—what else—promoting Camel cigarettes. This time I could simply overlook such nonsense.

The center of the city presented the usual picture or rather, what has become in recent years the usual picture, albeit always filled with surprises—such as a citizen of Prague discovering a new bank where she used to get fish; or the latest models of Jaguars displayed behind the windows of what once was a bakery; [End Page 679] or instead of the delicious aroma of assorted open sandwiches that wafted from the shelves until quite recently, the blaring sounds of rock music underscoring the display of T-shirts decorated with all sorts of fancy emblems, from the USA, Singapore and China. Tempora mutantur.

But none of that could faze me on that particular morning. The moment I woke up I made up my mind to spend the day as carefree as possible, gathering energy for the difficult evening hours. Affectionately I looked at the old buildings, as more and more of them were showing off their make-over. There are now façades in cheerful shades of green, rose, and yellow with bright red roofs smiling at us while stuccos and graceful decorations constantly emerge from the dark gray soot of decades. And above it all shone the Italian-blue sky.

On Železná [Iron Street], which leads from the Karolinum to Old Town Square, I noticed an older man with his arms dangling in an odd way; he stopped every few steps, turned his sad face from side to side and with trembling hands drew invisible circles in the air while mumbling soundlessly. What was he looking for? Was he looking for someone? His shaky gait and jittery movements suggested a mentally disturbed person. Some people turned to look after him, shaking their heads. A boisterous little boy tried mimicking the man's gait, which earned him a couple of annoyed nudges from his mother. Somehow the poor madman didn't fit into the cheerful street scene.

I stopped and also turned to look after him. Had nature wrought havoc with this man or had his fellow human beings treated him so badly that for the rest of his life he would find it necessary to defend himself against invisible threats?

Nonsense! The difficult evening hours I anticipated seemed to cast their shadows and force such ideas into my head. The poor man was obviously sick, that was all.

A huge crowd had gathered in front of the Old Town Hall on the big square at the lower end of Železná waiting for the hourly attraction when the two little windows above the old clock would open and the twelve apostles would pass by, followed by the miser shaking his sack of money, and death...

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