of curiosity and whose paws reach for the letter. She doesn’t want to give it to the beast, but it grabs the envelope so fast that she doesn’t have time to protest. It removes a sheet of paper out of the envelope: the initials H.J. are the first thing she notices. The beast takes the sheet of paper in its claws, unfolds it, and against her will her eyes run over the lines. When she has finished reading, the beast looks at her sarcastically, as if to say: Can’t you see, you fool! It yawns, lazily stretches its limbs, and returns to its lair inside her.
She didn’t understand what she was reading, ignorant of the meaning of those long letters that leaned off to the left like cornstalks bent hard by a strong wind. But suddenly her surroundings lit up and she started to laugh. A few rays of sunlight made their way through the dense clouds, spreading light onto the golden tips of the bell towers and the Gothic steeples, among which she liked so much to fly in the company of the ancient sage. The leaves of the trees brightened with gold and purple, their dead flowers blossomed forth once more, giving off a sweet scent. Out from among the flowers stepped trumpeters, holding up their instruments: pah-pa-rah, pah-pa-rah! she heard. Between the snapping of the flags and the thunder of the trumpets, she could hear these words: I’ll be back . . . I’m going to the village to care for someone who is dying . . . how I look forward to seeing you again . . . an unusual, extraordinary woman . . .
Darkness had fallen some time ago and she went back home. Without thinking anything, she made dinner, patted her children’s heads, and quickly closed the door of her room behind her. Her husband was grumbling about something on the other side, but she couldn’t hear him because in the middle of the room, surrounded by Bengal lights, there was the flute player leading a train of followers. She sat at the table with a cup of tea and picked up her pencil.
She wrote nothing, not that evening, nor the day after. She took all kinds of old clothes out of the cupboard, tried them on in front of the mirror, which was too small to see herself full length in, and started to mend them. She decorated her hats with new ribbons and paid special attention to the undergarments, to which she added lace, both new as well as some that was still serviceable from old blouses. On the table she placed the garnet necklace, inherited from her grandmother, and the earrings that were a gift from the Duchess von Sagan. After a few days, when she was once more able to write, she would get up from time to time, look at herself in the mirror, and hold the jewels next to her face. She did not watch herself with her own eyes but with a masculine perspective. Her eyes were as lively as they were when she was little Miss Betty, and the mirror offered her the face of a beautiful and resplendent young woman.
A week went by, then another, then a third one. She spent whole nights writing, and when daylight spoiled her concentration, she stretched out on the sofa and took a nap. After which she prepared breakfast. She had fallen in love with a strong blend of black tea, taken with a little sugar.
To write a report on Božena’s lovers. On the prefect’s lips, the word smelled like a tiny, poorly ventilated room. For me, this word is beautiful. In themselves, words mean nothing; meaning is given to them by one’s own experience.
The first lover was Celestial. He showed her the way. In a professional sense, of course, but also in another way. He accompanied her through Šárka, and Betty, the forsaken dreamer, turned herself into a lady who knows what she wants, into a writer with talent and discerning of admiration. And into a passionate woman. Later came her friendship with young Doctor Čejka. And with Ivan, that man from Brno . . .
Yes, Ivan. I remember a pretty story that Božena once told me a pretty story about a very special night that she had spent with a man, with a lover, in the mountains. I would give my entire life for a night like that. But she is even admired by Ivan’s friends, Klácel