Free The Drowning Of A Goldfish by Lidmila; Sováková

display Santa Claus in almond paste. This saintly man is accompanied by tiny chocolate devils, who entice one into the evil sin of gluttony .
    The temptation is mouthwateringly sweet .
    I turn right and start up Venceslav’s square. There are shorter ways to return home. None of them is as beautiful .
    I love the gleaming shop windows, the people who stroll. I love Prague in its leisure; the city of movie theaters, art galleries, and luxury shops .
    The faces of work are gray and dead .
    The statue of Saint Venceslav’s, casting a massive shadow, walls up the bloodthirsty tragedy in its pedestal. His grandmother Ludmila rests there on her bed, strangled by her grandson Boleslav, whose dagger slit the throat of his brother as smoothly as a knife moving through butter .
    This saint is the patron of my country .
    This sly slaughter is its history .
    This refusal to know is our survival .
    The city offers the tiny handkerchief of the Park of Karolina Světlá to its sick branches, shaking in fits of coughing. I traverse the park in three big strides and plunge into Žitná Street. I run up to the church of Saint Ludmila, whose towers and sharp spires tear the pale dusk of the city to pieces, condemning it to night .
    My heart throbs in sudden fright as I race to the end of Francouzská Street, turn left, and keep running. Breathless, I come to a halt under the windows of our house. They are still there, illuminated, calm, reassuring .
    I rush up the staircase; the bell trembles under my impatient fingers. When the door opens, I dive in .
    Inside, it is warm and bright, full of appetizing smells, which promise a good dinner .
    My bed is covered with presents: candies, fruit, and nuts. It is the day of Santa Claus, when every good child is rewarded .
    Struck with a hallucinating fatigue, I falter. Where is my Prince Charming to take me in his arms and save my life?
    This time, my waiting room is a third class one. The trains pass at top speed from Purgatory to Inferno.
    This time, to live means to survive.
    Beneath me, the floor resonates with muffled sounds, muddled muttering, and stifled cries. Silence crumbles into decay.
    Maimed shadows creep from dark corners and ooze out towards me. My torpor, swollen with sweetish anguish, is lethal.
    With the obstinacy of a blade of grass piercing the tarmac, resistance scrapes a path through the gray cells of my bemused brain.
    I push my hand against the hard, cool wood. One after another, my feet unglue from the floor, my back straightens, ossifies, making me stand upright.
    Step by step I walk; as if, after a long illness, gnawed at by weakness, I learn to use my own force. The obscure space between me and the door recedes and my hand finally strikes the cold doorknob, my palm clutching its sharp, bruising shape …
    The door eases open.
    The corridor, long and white, lures me into a noxious trap where opaque bodies rush to meet me. I become frightened as they approach.
    In the distance, a bare light bulb dances in the draft, hurling itself against the rampant darkness in a violent shock.
    I thrust against the iron grating of the narrow staircase and lean over. Trembling, I listen for the familiar steps. Gasping for breath, I rush into Rudolf’s arms.
    His well-articulated voice stops me halfway.
    â€œA lady never runs, especially not after a man. You can be sure that what I am saying is for your own good. How can I respect a woman who lets her emotions show?! How can I remain faithful to her?!
    â€œAnd don’t forget that I only need to raise my little finger and any woman I want would sink into my arms.”
    My life of a young spouse consists of never-ending advice “for my own good.”
    The moral teaching of Rudolf abounds in indisputable truths:
    I am ugly, stupid, and too old. He married me, being confident that even with all my physical and spiritual deficiencies, I possessed qualities that redeem everything: faithfulness, loyalty, and