THE CABINET FOR SENTIMENTAL TRIVIAL LITERATURE

September 8th.

Dear Rosa,

I’ve been thinking for a long time about how it would be pleasant to write to you. But it is only today, facing the usual chaos in the office – no, it has not diminished over time – that I almost unintentionally wrote the date and the first words. And one word entails another: dear Rosa … you took care of the Cabinet (and me) the best way you could, everything is still going on according to your wishes, but you see, things tend to wear out in various, sometimes unpredictable ways. A storm came and damaged the roof. In my youth, in everyone’s youth, storms didn’t break trees and take roof tiles away, but now they do. And the pipes are bursting now and then, even though they’re not as old as that – or are they? You had them changed when you bought this house, but that time is now considered as long gone by. Those faraway nineteen seventies, says a radio voice announcing Melodies With Patina. Your floral wallpaper turned gray, and the plaster became somewhat brittle, halfway to turning to dust. And your young assistant and friend is shrinking before the date of his birth, and has to live very carefully if he wants to live, which he is not quite sure about. But I will not write you my health bulletin; this is about the health of the Cabinet.

It’s simple: we urgently need an extra cash injection – yes, that’s a good word, “injection” makes things cleaner, less vulgar. But in addition to money, the Cabinet needs a new curator, which is perhaps an even more difficult problem; I have to find someone I could trust enough to hand down your world on him or her. Not right away. But soon enough. After a transition period. Everything needs to be taken care of on time, you used to say as if you were speaking to yourself, but maybe it was meant for me, as a warning. On time, then — that is, now — I must find someone who I will know for sure would protect the Cabinet as I have protected it, as I still do protect it, and as I hope to continue to do, at least partly, as long as I’m still here. That is, if I manage to keep a little space on the ground floor and justify my retired presence by putting your apartment in order, putting the archives in order, putting something in order – except that it won’t be the same and I’ll have to get used to it…

Thus, in such circles, revolve my anxious thoughts about the Cabinet, along with some other anxious thoughts. You have to decide to leave and you will leave, you used to say, as if you were a bit bored with presenting such obvious facts. But the fact is also that I don’t like to make decisions. I love the comfort of small habits, no matter how they were formed, and I feel I can handle anything if my day starts with a coffee at this table. I don’t like to take leave either, just as human beings in general don’t seem to like to take leave of places they consider their own for some reason. But the Cabinet is more important than me and it is my job to –

September 8th still

I had to stop writing. Miha came to look at the damage on the roof and is now making noise above my head. It was difficult to persuade him to come – because he is old, and he has had enough of everything, and he cannot promise me anything, and he will certainly not accept any big order, and the order here cannot be other than big. If I had gone with him to the attic, he would have continued to explain all that, he would get more irritated with every word, he wouldn’t even take a look at damaged places. But I am, you know, a man with a weak heart, and I cannot climb that ladder. And he may eventually find that a minor repair would be enough, at least temporarily – and that’s the best we can hope for.

But in the long run …

In the long run, I think I need a legal counsel. You wouldn’t believe how much everybody here needs a legal counsel these days.

But in fact, right now I’d like to know something else: that successor of mine, maybe you’d prefer if it were a woman? Back then, at our very beginning, when I returned to you penitently after one of my clumsy attempts to leave this place, you said, “Well, I guess the stars want it this way.” And you sighed as if you were a little disappointed – or did it just sound that way to me? But recently I remembered that moment and decided to follow your example: I will take the person sent to me by the stars, which in this particular situation means that I won’t look around, trying to find someone through friends and acquaintances, but will simply post a job ad – that’s what I suggested to the board, we had a meeting about that a few days ago. Everyone agreed, so we immediately compiled the text of our ad and published it the next day. Many people applied, as might have been expected. And now I’m reviewing these applications, splitting them into two piles: I’ll talk to these, I won’t talk to those. Ten candidates, I decided, I would invite ten people to the interview. A nice round number, neither too big nor too small, allows for a choice without wasting too much energy, but I wonder if really each and every one of them should be a woman. But no, I don’t think so – am I not a proof of the contrary? Sure, more women have applied, but there are some men as well – maybe I should maintain the same ratio as in applications? Yes, that would simplify the matter, to have something as a rule. Although the quality of the application, in principle, has nothing to do with gender, that is, it should not have – or should it in this case? I don’t know, I wonder, I’m get lost in those thoughts, and I shouldn’t get lost but hurry up. Because the process will take some time anyway. Because I can’t receive more than two candidates a week. Because a man whose heart is half artificial cannot stand stress day after day. Because, because, because. Mere excuses, I hear you snort at my reasoning, naive postponing of the inevitable! But you can’t say I haven’t calculated and arranged everything neatly: the selection process will be over by November 1st, followed by a six-month probationary period, and then, if all goes well, I will retire and the chosen person takes over your kingdom. What could you object to that?

September 9th

Dear Rosa,

It’s Saturday and I am sitting under the awning of the cafe, even though I was already out for a coffee today. But it’s pleasant to write in the shelter of this courtyard, with all these plants in jars and good-natured fat waitress who brings even a bad coffee in a cup of dubious cleanliness as a birthday present. Anyway, it would be very problematic to say at home that I am writing a letter to you – so I neither do nor say that at home. Just now here came the old drunkard with the little dog that knows how to sit at the bar, unchanging both, as if time didn’t exist. We are the only guests at the moment.

Miha was hanging out in the attic for a long time yesterday; then he came down, with the expression of an annoyed old repairman, that he has adopted so well. No way, he said. Was he saying “No way” before too, or did he take it from the younger guys? We should reconstruct the whole thing and there’s no way he’s going to do it. Of course, I said, we have to reconstruct that roof, but we can’t do that tomorrow, just like that, right? The forecasts for this fall announce a lot of rain, so I’m just asking him to patch the holes, just make that it doesn’t leak, temporarily. No, it can’t be done, it’s his final word. But on Monday he’ll come with his tools. With no guarantees whatsoever.

It may have been wrong to tell Zlatko about all this, but a human being needs to talk to someone. No, not to Pauline, conversations about the Cabinet (even without mentioning my letters to you) still manage to provoke something like a tempest. Zlatko, however, was full of enthusiasm. Ever since he has another grandchild, he has been sick of the “petite physicality” around the house and has welcomed something concrete, a tough solid problem like the roof. There are many possibilities, he said. First, the Ministry of culture. Second, the city administration. Someone he knows recently got quite a sum for a façade in the old town, from that money people pay if they live in a cultural monument or something – do we pay that “monumental tax”? Ah, Rosa! it’s been over ten years, and I still miss your sense of humor just as much! Because this is all too absurd, including your little worm who doesn’t want to be pulled out of his rotten apple.

September 11th

She just walked out of the office. A pretty woman in her forties, though I would have given her less – but I would gladly give less to everyone, starting with my reflection in the mirror. You would now want me to describe her to you, and I would start to stutter – what does your “describe her to me” really mean? Well, for example, a dress with narrow stripes in blue and white, short sleeves, oval neckline, fitted waist! But if that’s not what I see? Why wouldn’t you see it, you have eyes like everyone else, you see the color, the pattern, you see the cloth falling, enveloping the body, following the movement or resisting it. But why would I want to see all that, why do you want me to look in that way, to describe to you all those random people walking through the Cabinet door – after all, bodies are more interesting than the clothes that cover them. Because clothes tell about people just about everything, and because there is nothing more interesting in the world than clothes! You are saying that and laughing as if you are amused with your simple truth, with all those who appear to question it, perhaps even with your own helplessness, which makes your going out less and less frequent, and my reports about the world of dressed people more and more welcome.

Well, today’s dress was green, asymmetrical, loosely following the shape of the body. You would like it – I mean the dress, it could remind you of one of your own creations. I’m not sure about Sofia. She is restrained. Thoughtful, almost tragic. She graduated in law, but never seems to have had a serious job. She has three children – that’s very serious, she says stabbed by my imprudent remark. Fifteen, thirteen, eight years old, if I remember correctly the melody of her numbers. At some point she was giving legal assistance at a psychological counseling center, volunteered in some workshops. My impression is that there’s something in her that’s constantly trying to get loose. She couldn’t keep her eyes on anything for long. I can  understand that – or do I imagine that I understand, because I myself find it difficult to keep my eyes on other people’s faces, on the face of that Sofia – too curious, too indiscreet eyes?

Anyway, the conversation shouldn’t end too quickly, so I ask what she likes to do, how she imagines her work day. (What do you like? What you don’t like? Do you like the fried cheese? – inspiration coming from those girl’s albums you didn’t choose to exhibit in the end.) She’s giving vague answers, she’ll adapt to the circumstances. All right, I say and send her to take a look of the Cabinet, asking her to write down anything that comes to her mind about it. She is confused – how do you mean, anything? Well, any impression, comment, suggestion. She turned to go and then paused: Will you perhaps read my story during that time?

Well, we seem to have formulated that ad in a not too intelligent way. “Your story is more important to us than your qualifications!” At that meeting we all agreed that it was really good, unconventional, stimulating ad – I don’t remember exactly how else we flattered ourselves, but it never occurred to us that the candidates could literally take our words and start making literature. Although, on second thought, if you add the name of our institution to that ad, perhaps such a reaction is not particularly strange. Anyway, Sofia takes out of her bag ten printed pages that look quite professional. I accept them and think how inappropriate it was to ask her for more words, more notes; I suppose I even blushed a little with shame, but she only asked if she could write down her impressions of the Cabinet in her handy and then send them to me. Of course, I accept generously, and dictate my number to her. Write as if you accidentally came by and want to tell someone what this place is like, don’t bother with style.

Ah, Rosa, I don’t know how to talk to people! I concentrate so much on avoiding clumsiness, and it always manages to catch me in the end. I was relieved when she went on her little tour of our premises, smiled at her when she came back, said I was very pleased and would let her know the results when I talked to the remaining nine candidates. I didn’t ask her if she was writing literature on other occasions too.

SOFIA’S NOTE ON THE CABINET

A small museum, five rooms upstairs and some storage on the ground floor. In the brightest room, the fashion drawings of the lady who founded the collection are on display. The lady first collected the magazines she drew for, then wondered what kind of women buy those magazines, wear clothes made from her drawings. She thought it would be easiest to find out with the help of the words these women read and wrote. That is why in the room with her drawings two walls are occupied by shelves with various, not only fashion magazines, not only from her time, but older ones too. In the next room there are novels “for girls and women.” In the third, book of instructions, tips and advices. In the reception area, a series of miniature paintings and old scrapbooks. In the last, small room are not words but herbariums and music notebooks. I didn’t see what was in the pantries. If I worked here, I would try to better understand those books and objects. They were all created before 1978.

September 12th

Dear Rosa,

Miha is banging relentlessly in the attic, now just above my head; every blow kills one thought, and in the end my head will be completely empty. Still, I can boast about something: I called the Ministry of culture and made an appointment with some kind employee. Already for tomorrow. She will explain everything. And since she will certainly ask me some questions about the Cabinet, immediately after that conversation I began to compile a chronology of our existence.

It’s strange – when you know some facts, you inevitably wonder what preceded them. What, for example, was in this house before you bought it? (I’d most happy now go to the city archives and do a little research.) Which of your countries did you come from when you decided to finally come back here? I don’t remember you telling me that. I’d like to ask you a few more questions about everything you haven’t told me about your wandering years, to make sure I remember exactly what you did tell. But I have to rely on the memory and take comfort in the fact that no one is really interested in the small details anyway. Because people have less and less patience – you wouldn’t believe how much patience they’ve lost in these ten years. Yet I will continue to compile the facts, note down the dates, wondering why we didn’t do that together – why didn’t we put down your story nicely and systematically so that visitors can read it; instead, we left everything to my very questionable sense of improvisation. Like we never really counted on visitors?

But visitors are counting on us, which always surprises me.

Ah, sir, how good you are here! had exclaimed the woman who left a couple of minutes ago. Disheveled, a little too colorful, she went around our scrapbooks, and every now and then she would stop, close her eyes for a moment, sigh deeply. She didn’t look at anything else, but returned to me and leaned against the reception desk. You can’t imagine, sir, she said, that is, maybe you could imagine if it occurred to you to think about it, how horrible it is to live at the beginning of a street like mine; no, it’s not a matter of constant murmur, or even of the noise from cafes where awful music is blaring – there’s something particularly expressive in the word “blaring,” isn’t there? – but that street violinist who repeats the same four melodies all day, I can’t take it anymore! And when he’s gone, there comes someone blowing into a huge flute while a girl is dancing on her hands, or someone with a guitar and a recorded rhythm, hm-ba-hm-ba-hm-ba-hm-ba, I’d like to get some kind of trumpet, something very loud, do you have such a thing? She rolled her eyes, laughing briefly. No, of course not, because you don’t need it! You have no idea what a blessing it is not to live in a tourist district!

Yeah, I thought, she’s a messenger from heaven and she came to warn me about a possible future.

I have big ears, she continued, look how big they are, that’s why I hear so well, neither double nor triple window panes help, my sister says that my ears are like that because I’m going to die soon, that towards the end of life people’s ears grow a lot, but she’s evil, so evil that she does not even understand her own harm, because what will happen to her then, you tell me, but still, I forgive her.

She sighed deeply again, lowering her voice to a confidential whisper. But the two of us, sir, my sister and I, we have those notes, you know, that’s what I wanted to give you.

Now it’s my turn to sigh deeply. I should have gotten used to the fact that people usually don’t come here to see what we have, but to try to use us for their own purpose, but that fact still manages to amaze me.

Those notes, my guest continued, pulling a thin folder out of her bag, belonged to our mother, look how touching it is, written in pencil more than seventy years ago, her boyfriend makes an appointment, leaves a piece of paper in their secret place, secretly, you know, because it was during the war and – and I can’t tell you all about it, it’s like a bubble of air in me, I swallowed it a little before her death, because she was repeating her story, repeating it until I swallowed it, forever, that’s why words come to me that are not mine, so I’d rather keep quiet about it all, you understand, keep quiet until further notice, but you’re going to take them, right?

And what else could I do but ask her to fill out that donation form of ours? I took her mother’s notes and now I can take comfort in the fact that it is a really thin folder. And we are the Cabinet for sentimental trivial literature and it is our duty to make someone happy here and there.

However, looking for the form, I came across Sofia’s story, which somehow sank among the papers, into paper-oblivion. Whatever happens, an honest person can never shake off a bad conscience. But now I put Sofia’s text on the shelf with the unpaid bills, it won’t get lost anymore.

(beginning of the novel translated by the author)