In a somewhat depressed atmosphere another proposal was put on the agenda: that Central China be yielded to the salamanders for inundation. In return the Newts would undertake to guarantee in perpetuity the coasts of the European states and their colonies.
Dr Rosso Castelli: ‘In perpetuity is a trifle on the long side. Shall we say for twenty years?’
Professor Van Dott: ‘Central China is a trifle on the small side. Shall we say the provinces of Nganhuei, Honan, Kiangsu, Chi-li and Föng-tien?’
The Japanese representative protested against the cession of Föng-tien province which was situated within the Japanese sphere of interest. The Chinese delegate was given the floor, but unfortunately nobody understood what he was saying. There was growing unrest in the conference room; the time by now was one o’clock at night.
At that moment the secretary of the Italian delegation entered the room and whispered something into the ear of the Italian representative, Count Tosti. Count Tosti turned pale, rose to his feet and, ignoring the fact that the Chinese delegate, Dr Ti, was still speaking, exclaimed hoarsely: ‘Mr Chairman, I request a hearing. News has just been received that the Newts have flooded part of our province of Venice in the direction of Portogruaro.’
A terrible silence fell, with only the Chinese delegate continuing to speak.
‘But the Chief Salamander warned you ages ago, didn’t he?’ Dr Carvalho grunted.
Professor Van Dott fidgeted impatiently and raised his hand. ‘Mr Chairman, perhaps we could return to the matter under discussion. We are talking about Föng-tien province. We are authorised to offer the Japanese government compensation for it in gold. There is also the question of how much the states with an interest in this matter would pay our clients for removing China altogether.’
At that moment the night-time hams were listening to the Newt radio. ‘You have been listening to a recording of the Barcarole from “The Tales of Hofmann”,’ the announcer squeaked. ‘Hello, hello, we are now switching over to the region of Venice, Italy.’
And then all that was to be heard was a dark and boundless rushing sound as of rising waters.
10
Mr Povondra Takes It Upon Himself
Who would have said that so much water and so many years had passed under the bridge! Even our Mr Povondra is no longer the doorman at the G. H. Bondy residence; he is now what you might call a venerable old gentleman, peacefully enjoying the fruits of his long and conscientious life in the form of a small pension. But how far will a few hundreds go with these horrendous wartime prices? A good job that a chap can now and again catch a fish or two: there he would sit in his boat, rod in hand, gazing - all that water flowing past in just a single day, and where did it all come from? Sometimes he would hook a dace and sometimes a perch; there were somehow or other more fish about, probably because the rivers were so much shorter. Not a bad fish, actually, perch; true, most of it was bones but the flesh tasted a little like almonds. And Mother certainly knew how to do them. Mr Povondra, of course, did not know that the fire on which his wife cooked those perch was usually lit with those newspaper cuttings which he used to collect and sort. To tell the truth, Mr Povondra gave up collecting when he retired; instead he got himself an aquarium where, along with little golden carp he kept small newts and salamanders; he would look at them for hours on end as they lay there motionless or crawled out on the bank of stones he had built for them; then he would shake his head and say: ‘Who’d have thought it of them, Mother!’ But a man can’t just sit and stare; that’s why Mr Povondra took up fishing. And why not, men must always have something to do, Mother Povondra thought indulgently. Better that than if he went to the pub to argue politics!
Yes, a lot, a great lot of water had passed under the bridge. Even Frankie is no longer a schoolboy swatting his geography, nor even a young man wearing out his socks chasing after worldly vanities. He too is a man of mature years; thank God he’s a junior clerk at the post office - so his conscientious study of geography was, after all, good for something. He’s beginning to be sensible, Mr Povondra thought to himself as he let his boat drift a little below the Legionnaire’s Bridge. He’ll come and see me today; he’s off on Sundays. I’ll pick him up in the boat and we’ll row up to the point of Archer’s Island; the fish bite better there. And Frankie will tell me what’s new in the papers. And then we’ll go home, to VySehrad, and our daughter-in-law will bring the two children … For a little while Mr Povondra indulged in the peaceful happiness of being a grandfather. Why, little Mary will start school next year, he thought happily; and little Frankie, his grandson, already weighed thirty kilos! Mr Povondra had a strong and profound feeling that everything was part of vast and well-ordered world.
And over there by the water’s edge his son was already waiting, waving to him. Mr Povondra rowed his boat to the bank. ‘So you’re here at last,’ he said reprovingly. ‘Watch out you don’t fall in!’
‘Are they biting?’ the son inquired.
‘Not too well,’ the old gentleman grumbled. ‘Go a bit upstream, shall we?’
It was a pleasant Sunday afternoon; it was not yet the hour when those lunatics and loafers rush home from their football and similar forms of madness. Prague was empty and quiet; the few people who were strolling along the embankment or over the bridge were in no hurry: they were walking in a decent and dignified manner. They were superior, sensible people who did not jostle in crowds or jeer at fishermen on the river. Papa Povondra again had that good and deep sensation of order.
‘What news in the papers?’ he asked with paternal severity.
‘Nothing much, dad,’ the son replied. ‘AH it says here is that those Newts have worked their way up to Dresden.’
‘Well, then the Germans are in the shit,’ the old gentleman decided. ‘D’you know, Frankie, those Germans, they were an odd sort of nation. Educated but odd. I knew a German once, he was a driver at a factory; terribly rude man he was, that German. But kept his vehicle in order, I’ll say that for him. So Germany too has disappeared from the map of the world,/ Mr Povondra reflected. ‘And the hullaballoo it used to make! Really dreadful: it was the army first and last, nothing but soldiering. But even the Germans aren’t a match for the Newts. Believe me, I know those Newts. Remember me showing them to you when you were a little boy?’
‘Look out, dad,’ the son said. ‘You’ve got a nibble.’
‘It’s only a minnow,’ the old gentleman grumbled and moved his rod. So it’s Germany’s turn now, he mused. Well, one’s no longer surprised at anything. The fuss that was made some years ago when the Newts inundated a country! Even if it was only Mesopotamia or China the papers were full of it. But by now no one’s getting excited any more, Mr Povondra reflected sadly, blinking over his rod once or twice. One gets used to anything, and that’s a fact. It’s not happening here, so why worry? If only things weren’t so dear! Take the price they’re charging for coffee nowadays; well, of course, Brazil has also disappeared under the water. Bound to affect shop prices when part of the world’s drowned!
Mr Povondra’s float was bobbing on the gentle ripples. All those territories the Newts had flooded with the sea, the old gentleman reflected. There was Egypt, and India, and China - why, they even had a go at Russia, and what a huge country that used to be! When you think that the Black Sea now extended all the way up to the Arctic Circle - my, all that lot of water! There’s no denying it: they’ve bitten off quite a chunk of our continents! A good job it took them so long …
‘You say,’ the old gentleman spoke up, ‘those Newts have got to Dresden?’
‘Sixteen kilometres from Dresden. That means nearly the whole of Saxony is under water.’
I went there once with Mr Bondy,’ Papa Povondra recalled. ‘Used to be a tremendously rich country, Frankie, but to say you ate well there - no you couldn’t say that. Otherwise a very decent lot, better than the Prussians. No comparison really.’
‘But Prussia’s gone too.’
‘I’m n
ot surprised,’ the old gentleman snapped. ‘I can’t stand the Prussians. But the French will be all right now with Germany going down the drain. They’ll heave a sigh of relief, they will.’
‘Not for long, dad,’ Frankie objected. Tt said in the paper recently that a good one-third of France is already drowned.’
‘Yes,’ the old gentleman sighed. ‘We used to have a Frenchman, at Mr Bondy’s I mean, a footman. Jean his name was. Always after the women, really disgusting it was. You know, you’re punished for it in the end, all that frivolity.’
‘But ten kilometres outside Paris they defeated the Newts, or so it said,’ Frankie reported. ‘Apparently they had mined the area and blew it all up. Routed two Newt army corps, it said.’
‘Well, yes, the French are good soldiers,’ Mr Povondra observed expertly. ‘That Jean would stand no nonsense either. Don’t know where he got his strength from. Reeked like a barber’s shop but when he was in a scrap he certainly knew how to fight. But two Newt army corps, that’s not enough. Come to think of it,’ the old gentleman mused, ‘people were better at fighting people. And it didn’t take so long. With these Newts here the war’s been going on for twelve years and still there’s nothing; it’s all preparation of more favourable positions … Now when I was a youngster a battle was a battle. You had 3 million men on one side and three million on the other,’ the old gentleman gestured until the boat rocked, ‘and then, hell, they charged each other … This here isn’t a proper war at all,’ Papa Povondra was getting angry. ‘It’s all concrete barriers, but a proper bayonet charge - what a hope!’
‘But, dad, men and Newts can’t get at each other,’ Povondra junior tried to justify the modern method of warfare. ‘You can’t make a bayonet charge into the water, can you now?’
‘That’s just it,’ Mr Povondra grunted contemptuously. ‘They can’t get at each other. But you set men against men, and you’d be surprised what they can do! But what does your lot know about war!’
‘So long as it doesn’t come here,’ young Frankie said a little unexpectedly. ‘You know, when a man has children …’
‘What do you mean, here?’ the old gentleman burst out somehow irritably. ‘You mean here, to Prague?’
‘Well, into Bohemia, yes,’ Povondra junior said worriedly. I keep thinking that if the Newts have already got to Dresden …’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Mr Povondra rebuked him.’ How could they get here? Across our mountains?’
‘Perhaps along the Elbe - and then up the Vltava.’
Papa Povondra snorted angrily. ‘Don’t talk nonsense -along the Elbe? That would only get them as far as Podmokli and no further. Why, it’s all rocks there. I’ve been there. No fear, the Newts won’t get through to us, we’re all right. And the Swiss are all right too. That’s the great advantage of not having a sea coast, you know. Anyone with a coast is in trouble nowadays.’
‘But with the sea coming up all the way to Dresden …’
‘That’s where the Germans are,’ the old gendeman declared dismissively. ‘That’s their lookout. But the Newts can’t get through to us, stands to reason. They’d first have to remove those rocks - and can you imagine the work that would be?’
‘Work,’ Povondra junior objected gloomily, ‘is something they’re rather good at. Remember that in Guatemala they managed to submerge a whole mountain range.’
‘That’s different,’ the old gentleman declared very resolutely. ‘Don’t talk so silly, Frankie! That was in Guatemala and not here. Things are different here.’
Povondra junior sighed. ‘If you say so, dad. But when you consider that those brutes have already drowned about a fifth of the continents …’
‘By the sea, you fool, but nowhere else. You don’t understand politics. The states by the sea are at war with them but we aren’t. We are a neutral country and that’s why they can’t touch us. That’s the long and the short of it. And stop talking or I won’t catch anything.’
Silence reigned over the water. The trees on Archer’s Island were already casting long delicate shadows on the surface of the Vltava. From the bridge came the tinkle of the trams, and along the embankment strolled nursemaids with prams and conservatively clad people in their Sunday best.
‘Dad,’ young Povondra breathed in an almost childish voice.
‘What is it?’
‘Isn’t that a catfish?’
‘Where?’
From the river, immediately in front of the National Theatre, a large black head was showing above the water, slowly advancing upstream.
‘Is it a catfish?’ Povondra junior repeated.
The old gentleman dropped his rod. ‘That?’ he jerked out, pointing a shaking finger. ‘That?’
The black head disappeared under the water.
‘That was no catfish, Frankie,’ the old gentleman said in what did not seem like his normal voice. ‘We’re going home. This is the end.’
‘What end?’
‘A Newt. So they’re here already. We’re going home,’ he repeated, pulling his fishing rod apart with uncertain hands. ‘So this is the end.’
‘You’re shaking all over,’ Frankie said in alarm. ‘Aren’t you feeling well?’
‘We’re going home,’ the old gentleman babbled excitedly, his chin chattering pitifully. ‘I’m feeling cold. That’s just what we needed! You realise, this is the end. So they’ve got here already. Christ, it’s cold. I’d like to go home.’
Povondra junior looked at him searchingly and grabbed the oars. ‘I’ll take you back, dad,’ he said, also in a voice not quite his own, and with vigorous strokes aimed the boat at the island. ‘Just leave it, I’ll tie her up.’
‘Why is it suddenly so cold?’ the old gentleman wondered, his teeth chattering.
‘I’ll give you a hand, dad. Come along now,’ the younger man said soothingly and took his arm. ‘I think you caught a chill on the water. That was only a bit of wood.’
The old gendeman was trembling like a leaf. ‘A bit of wood, eh? Wood, my foot. I know a Newt when I see one, better than most people. Let me go!’
Povondra junior did what he had never before done in his life: he waved down a taxi. ‘To VySehrad,’ he said and pushed his father inside. ‘I’ll take you home, dad. It’s getting late.’
‘Yes, it is late,’ Papa Povondra stammered. ‘Too late. This is the end, Frankie. That was no bit of wood. It’s them!’
Povondra junior practically had to carry his father up the steps. ‘Get his bed ready, Mum,’ he hurriedly whispered in the door. ‘Got to get dad into bed, he’s sick.’
And now Papa Povondra was lying on his featherbed; his nose was sticking out strangely from his face and his lips were mouthing and mumbling something incomprehensible; how old he was looking. Now he had calmed down a little …
‘Are you feeling better, dad?’
At the foot of the bed Mother Povondra stood sniffing and crying into her apron; their daughter-in-law was lighting a fire in the stove, and the children, little Frankie and Mary, were staring at their granddad with wide frightened eyes, as if they did not recognise him.
‘Don’t you want the doctor, dad?’
Papa Povondra looked at the children and whispered something; and suddenly tears began to stream from his eyes. ‘Do you want anything, dad?’
‘It was me, it was me,’ the old gentleman whispered. ‘I want you to know that it was all my fault. If I hadn’t let that captain in to see Mr Bondy none of this would ever have happened …’
‘But nothing has happened, dad,’ Povondra junior said soothingly.
‘You don’t understand,’ the old gentleman wheezed. ‘This is the end, you know. The end of the world. Now the sea’s going to come here too, now that the Newts have got here. It’s all my doing; I shouldn’t have let that captain in … People should know who’s to blame for it all.’
‘Nonsense,’ the son said harshly. ‘Don’t let this idea go to your head. Everybody did it. The states did it, finance did it ?
?? They all wanted to have as many Newts as possible. They all wanted to make money out of them. We sent them armaments too and all sorts of things … We are all responsible for it.’
Papa Povondra fidgeted restlessly: ‘Oceans covered everything once, and they’ll do so again. This is the end of the world. A gentleman told me once that where Prague is now was sea-bed at one time. I think the Newts were the cause of it even then. D’you know, I shouldn’t have let that captain in. Something was telling me, don’t do it - but then I thought maybe that captain would give me a tip … And he never did, you know. For no purpose at all I’ve wrecked the whole world …’ The old gentleman was swallowing something like tears. I know, I know very well that this is the end for us. I know it was my fault …’
‘Wouldn’t you like some tea, granddad?’ the younger Mrs Povondra asked compassionately.
‘All I’d like,’ the old gentleman sighed, ‘all I’d like is for these children to forgive me.’
11