Free The Drowning Of A Goldfish by Lidmila; Sováková Page A

devotion until death do us part.
    As for Rudolf, he will endure any strain and resist any temptation, provided I am obedient and become his kind of a “lady.”
    Rudolf’s fidelity only goes as far as not sleeping with everyone who comes his way.
    He is a born flirt and knows how to play the game.
    When a bird crosses Rudolf’s path, a red light flashes on: would he, should he …?
    â€œBut, my darling, can an honest man like me deceive this poor little thing, who worships me with a dog-like devotion?! She breathes only for me. Have mercy on her, sweetie, she would not survive it.”
    After his return home, while scrutinizing my face, Rudolf never forgets to record his daily virtuous victories.
    He insists that I look straight into his eyes, openly, without blinking, because:
    â€œThe eyes are the mirror of the soul; yours have many dark corners.”
    Am I grateful enough? Do I realize the extent of the sacrifices he is making for me? Are the deprivations he is subjected to matched by my devotion? he asks severely, without stopping to savor his dinner.
    In addition to being loyal beyond any doubt, I am endowed with a supplementary quality: I know how to cook.
    One of the rare sound investments my great-grandfather—a jolly man of the world but a rather mediocre businessman—had ever made was to send his daughter to the best cooking academy in Vienna where, along with other young ladies of good families, my grandmother not only displayed a great interest, but also a natural talent for the preparation of delicious dishes.
    Knowing that the way to the heart is through the stomach, Grandmother enlightened me with all her secrets. With an angelic patience and an unshakeable demeanor, she endured my eternal questioning. Why could one not do it another way?
    Confining herself to the know-how, Grandmother must have found my challenge for the know-why redundant, if not impertinent.
    My days, lonely and gray, slip by with prison-like regularity.
    I get up at six and prepare breakfast, while Rudolf preens himself. I serve him breakfast, he goes to work.
    Always, he refuses my timid offer to accompany him through the park leading to the hospital, qualifying it as “undesirable supervision.”
    I clear the table and wash up. Then I sit down beneath the skylight, open my books, and start to study.
    At the end of each week, I pass an exam. I write the questions on little cards, mix them up, pull three of them from the pile. I am a demanding examiner, seldom content with my answers.
    At noon, I am allowed to meet Rudolf for lunch at the hospital canteen. I sit beside him and open my mouth just to eat, while he jokes with his colleagues and enjoys himself.
    He looks at me less than at his knife and fork, so as to avoid public ridicule: “Marital relations must exist only in strict privacy … Anyhow, you are too old to be childish.”
    After lunch, we return home for Rudolf’s nap. I am allowed to read, provided I am capable of turning the pages without any noise, which is not always the case.
    I could go down and read in the garden. Rudolf doesn’t need me at his side. But for me, any presence, even a mute one, is preferable to being alone.
    Softly, the newspaper drops from Rudolf’s slack hands. His body slumps, softened by sleep; his head sinks deep into the cushions. His mouth opens and he begins to snore. A slimy dribble appears between his lips, runs across his chin, and wets his shirt-collar. A deep crease divides his forehead, his eyes roll about beneath closed eyelids. The meal was indigestible. The wakening will be difficult and mean.
    Rudolf’s temper rises and descends on me like the waves of a stormy sea. He saves it for “at home.” Wanting me to be his slave, he casts me in the double role of Mary and also the dog.
    â€œAnyway, a wife is more accommodating than an animal … and less expensive. She renders more service.” It is more suitable to