“Hi there!”

“Leave me alone.”

“Hi there! Do you have…?”

“No, I don’t.”

Forty-seven ‘Hi theres’ in the first hour. Getting started was always the worst bit, so Štěpán decided to go on the offensive. He wouldn’t let himself get discouraged and he’d keep on smiling.

But it wasn’t going well. It seemed as though everyone was cold and in a hurry. They looked at him as if he was some loser, annoying them with his ‘Hi there!’ and smarmy smile. In his suit and shiny shoes he looked like a failed gigolo.

At least some women over the past few days had started to come over to sniff the bottles of perfume. A couple of them had even bought something. Štěpán was starting to convince himself it could work out, that he was a man women would come to for advice. They would delicately and expectantly apply some eau de toilette to their wrist (on principle Štěpán never used the word perfume, which he thought too vulgar) and smile happily when they found their fragrance. Oriental or spicy, citrus or woody tones, lavender or rose.

He was ready to explain to them how eau de toilette had a heart, head and body. That it wasn’t good to leave it out in the light – something he had read somewhere.

In his imagination he would not only assign a fragrance to the women, but also the countries he would never see. That freckled redhead, that’s Woody Ireland. The smell of Fresh Melon would help that girl and he would go with her to…no, he would send her to Madagascar. And, naturally, that brunette with the passionate way of walking – Blood Orange, Spain.

I’m happy I’ve got such a cushy number, he’d say to himself as he walked past the same old shop windows, thinking about the job centre. And if he was cold – it’s great to be in the fresh air. Or: It’s wonderful to meet people, whenever he was ejected from companies and restaurants.

“Hi there! Do you have…?” Štěpán was expecting another knockback, but this woman stood there silently. “Could I offer you…?”

“How much?”

“Excuse me?”

“How much does it cost?” she asked impatiently.

“But which one? You haven’t tried any yet!”

“Give me that blue one over there. Are you so far up shit creek that you have to sell perfume in the street?” she shot out. Štěpán was stunned. He looked into her black-rimmed eyes, at the drastically plucked eyebrows. Living Flowers. Belarus. One-way ticket.

“I don’t have any other work, and the blue perfume costs four hundred. I mean, the eau de toilette! And you haven’t even tried it, what if it doesn’t suit you? I’m looking for something else, but in the meantime…”

“In the meantime you’re standing there looking unbearably desperate!”

“There’s really no call for that, now, is there?”

“No, there isn’t, is there? You’re a man, you should be doing something else! Guys should be working in quarries, forests or sawmills. Without all this other bullshit! Here’s your four hundred. You’re my good deed for the day. Goodbye!”

He watched the woman leave and felt the dust in his mouth. Of course. It wasn’t The Job yet, but it was work and he had a contract. And it was better than all the temping work he had done. The last one had been delivering advertising leaflets, which he had quit after three months.

And they were beginning to get on each other’s nerves at home as well. Unbearably. Son, father and mother. Both parents had made it to retirement and were now sat at home all day. Štěpán thanked the heavens for television. They wouldn’t be able to live without it – they would be engulfed by lethargy. Lethargy and the spectre of the debts left over from the days of mother’s teleshopping purchases. A former queen in the land of overpriced junk, tens of thousands out the window, all their savings blown. Now she ate potatoes with their skins on. “To make the most of them,” she explained modestly. She now preferred to forget her mantra of It will all come out in the wash! that she had used for years as the bills mounted up.

She guiltily walked around the mixers, pots, multifunctional kitchen slicers, anti-fatigue slippers. She passed exercise equipment and cocktail sets essential for every house party.

“What the fuck do we need a cocktail set for?” was Štěpán’s response at the time.

“For when we have visitors,” said his mother defensively.

“You mean your brother, Ctibor, when he has run out of money for booze? Because I haven’t seen anyone else visit us for a long time!”

“Don’t shout at me.”

“I don’t want to! But I’m worried that we’re gonna end up skint because of you.”

“Maybe if you found a decent job we wouldn’t have to economize!” she said, ending the verbal jousting with her traditional triumph.

Štěpán’s plan and main desire was to escape the family conflagration. But to do so he needed money – for a place of his own, for a normal life with a normal girl. To be still living with your parents at twenty-five was hardly the ideal set-up for meeting someone.

It started drizzling and Štěpán took shelter in an underpass. A man in a grey coat was running along the pavement. He stopped beside him and took out a packet of filterless Start cigarettes from his pocket.

“Want one?” he asked abruptly.

“Thanks, but I’m not sure I like the filterless ones.”

“Just try one,” said the man, putting the packet in front of Štěpán’s face.

“OK. Thanks.” It wasn’t bad. “I wonder how long the rain’ll keep us in here,” said Štěpán.

“For as long as we let it,” came the reply. “What are you doing here – did you miss your bus?”

“Actually, I work here. I sell eau de toilette,” he said, putting all of the dignity he could muster into the tone and expression of his voice. “This weather’s costing me business,” he added sulkily.

“And how successful are you? Do you get many customers?”

“It depends,” replied Štěpán, dragging on his cigarette.

“Sounds like we’re in a similar predicament,” said the man with amusement.

“And what do you do?”

“I’m a priest.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Štěpán, coughing on the cigarette smoke. The man laughed.

“I tell myself I should do something else. Something where I wouldn’t have to like everyone. Those morons who can’t even make it to mass ten minutes early.”

“Why would they?”

“I wanted to test them, that’s why.”

“In what way?”

“A simple one. I was extremely curious to see whether they would manage to come earlier – despite all the Sunday genuflecting, singing, praying and wishing for peace. I shifted the mass ten minutes earlier. I spoke about it a month beforehand, I put a notice up on the church and it was in our newsletters. I was dying of curiosity to see if God was worth them rearranging their lives by ten minutes.”

“And?”

“As I expected,” said the priest, lighting another cigarette. “Half and half.”

“That’s not bad, is it?”

“If you’re an optimist,” he replied. “And why are you doing this? You’re young, you look healthy. Why are you selling perfume here?”

Štěpán started to laugh. “You’re ganging up on me today, aren’t you? Didn’t your sister pass by about fifteen minutes ago? ..I couldn’t find anything better, basically.”

“And doesn’t it give you a nervous twitch? Always having to smile, even though those women must get on your nerves?”

“Don’t you think it possible that they don’t bother me? That they don’t get on my nerves?”

“I don’t think it’s possible in the slightest,” croaked the priest with amusement. “But I would be interested to know where you stand with God. Have you ever devoted ten minutes of your life to him?”

For a moment there was silence.

“I don’t know,” said Štěpán truthfully.

“Oh, go to hell then,” said the servant of God, throwing the rest of his cigarette into a puddle. It hissed. He left with his head bowed, the rain falling into his face.

“My God…” muttered Štěpán.

A girl approached him in the underpass, an attractive brunette. Lavender. Provence. Together.

“Hi there! Would you like to…?”

“No,” she replied.

“…fly with me to Provence?”

“No,” she repeated, without even looking round.

It was clear to Štěpán it was time to call it a day. A fuck-up, a complete fuck-up, that was how he assessed his day, his life. Four hundred in his pocket. But his luck would change – he was doing all he could, after all. He wasn’t loafing about, waiting around. He was trying his best to sell things. And when he was at home, he answered the ads and sent off his CV. There had to exist something like a law of returns, of the direct correlation between the effort expended and the reward. There had to be. Whether under the watch of that smoky priest’s God, or…or it just simply worked. By itself. Somehow.

His thoughts were interrupted by a phone call.

“It’s not going too well, is it?” said Štěpán’s boss, coming straight to the point.

“Well, considering I’m just starting off, it’s not too bad.”

“You’ve been with us for three weeks now – it’s no longer starting off. Sorry, but we’re going to have to let you go. You’re on a trial period and we’re not going to extend it. Stop by tomorrow for your paperwork, all right?”

“It’s the first time I’ve sold stuff on the street. It’s getting better, you’ll see. I just need to learn the ropes a bit more and…”

“You’re too soft. I thought as much from the start. It won’t work out. Stop by tomorrow,” the male voice silenced him.

“Well, all right then…” stammered Štěpán, hanging up.

He remained standing there, looking at the smoke coming from the chimney of a nearby factory – a bastion of employment for the whole region. He had even tried there, but they hadn’t taken him on. He no longer knew why not. He would have been a man there. Maybe. Somehow. Effort. Priest. God. Four hundred. Man. Reward. He walked past the 24-hour shop, the funeral services and the city hostel. He shuffled his way home.

“How did it go?” asked his mother, pouring him a mug of tea. “Did you get soaked?”

“Not really, but they fired me. I wasn’t selling enough.”

“What?”

“What part of it didn’t you understand, Mum?” he asked wearily.

“But you’ve only been there a short time! Couldn’t they have shown more consideration?”

“In what way?”

“That you’re just a beginner and it takes you longer with these things!”

“What takes me longer? Like I’m incapable or something?”

“I didn’t mean that! You don’t have experience and…”

“What’s going on?” asked his father as he entered the kitchen.

“I’m out of a job. I didn’t sell enough,” replied Štěpán robotically.

His father flushed but said nothing at the pitiful sight of his son. “Well, they were crooks anyway. There’s no way I’d have worked for them. And anyway, selling perfume is for poofs, not for men…”

“Right, thanks, Dad. I already heard something similar today from a priest.”

His parents looked at each other awkwardly. “Are you hungry? I made some risotto with chicken thighs. They were on offer, it’s their sell-by-date today, but there’s nothing wrong with them,” announced his mother.

“Do you always have to emphasize we’re eating things that are past their sell-by-date?!” shouted Štěpán. He expected an argument, but surprisingly none was forthcoming. “Sorry, Mum,” he said first.

“Just make sure you eat properly. You’ve got that tart in the cupboard, I mean your cake, you know…” she replied. They had dinner in a quiet atmosphere of almost forgotten family unity. “I’m off to bed. Good night,” he said to his parents shortly afterwards.

“Goodnight,” they replied together almost in unison. He looked at them and was suddenly touched by their bond which had held strong throughout so many trials. And he regretted the fact that there was so much water under the bridge and so much was inevitably to come.

“Those…those debts will soon be paid off. The three of us will manage somehow,” added his mother. He smiled at her. That was just it, Mother, that ‘somehow’ again. And the three of them.

He was afraid he would cry if they talked any more. It would be too much.

Standing in the queue with dozens of other unemployed people, he felt like an old hand. In his twenty-five years of life this was the third time he had registered at the job centre. Needless to say, behind the window was the same guttural sadist who relished lording over anyone who showed signs of weakness. And no-one in the queue was exactly radiating strength.

“When did you start worrrking in the bakerrry?” he asked a small black-haired woman in an unnecessarily loud voice. Štěpán had her down as a divorced fortysomething with two or three children.

“I can’t remember,” she peeped.

“It’s neither herre nor therre whether you rememberrr. It’ll be wrritten down in your paperrs!”

“I couldn’t find them. I had another job afterwards…”

“So it must be a rrreal mess at home then! You’ll have to fill this in here!” he said, happily crushing her. The woman was incapable of offering even the least bit of self-defence. The cretin exhaled dramatically. “Off you go. Firrst floorrr, office number 113, Mrs Krružíková.”

Libuše Kružíková. Štěpán knew her from previous visits to the centre. An incredibly austere woman who only used facial gestures when strictly necessary. “Anything new in terms of employment? Are you actively looking? Come back in four weeks. Sign here.” And she even had a mug with the motto No-one is so poor they cannot afford a smile.

The queue moved forwards and Štěpán felt a prod between his shoulders. “Hey there!”

“Jana! Hi! I was gonna ask you what you’re doing here, but it’s pretty obvious.”

A classmate from high school, an eternal loser with an interlude as a junkie. Unhappy, but always kind. A verbal machine gun, impossible to ignore.

“You know I’d much rather see you in the pub get pissed together! I don’t like having to meet here.”

“What can you do? Anyway, how’s life?”

“As you can see – here on the scrounge. I should tell them to go and fuck themselves cos they never find you any work, but they pay for your insurance and that. At least something. I just did a year there working at the till in a shop,” she fired off. “I was thankful they took me on! It had been terrible till then, some part-time work, I just ate rolls and rice, I’d let guys take me out for a beer. Awful. You find the ads that offer all these interesting jobs, you know it yourself. Do you know what the weirdest thing was?” she inhaled, getting dangerously worked up. “There was this swanky law firm doing an Avatar-style Christmas night. Like the film, you know? So they were looking for hostesses who would walk about dressed up as the avatar characters. You had to be tall, which I am, and they offered two grand for the night. So I said to myself I’d go and make a cunt of myself. And guess what they said to me! That my tits were too big! Those avatars were really shapeless, which I’m not,” she said, working herself up.

“Oh, but that’s a good thing, Jana!” said Štěpán, calming her down. He could see some people in the queue smiling.

“Well, thanks. Do you fancy a drink after we finish here?”

“I’d like to, but I said to my mum I’d help her with the shopping. She got her pension today, you know.”

“Do you still live with your folks?”

“Yeah, still.”

“Hey, that’s cool. The number of times I’ve been in my freezing flat, wishing I was at my folks’. But at twenty-five, now that I’m used to living on my own, it’d be impossible. Give us your number and if anything turns up I’ll give you a shout.”

This time Štěpán avoided Kružíková. Office 112 issued him with a new card, he promised he’d be proactive until the next appointment, he signed and left.

He waited for his mother in front of the department store. “I hope we won’t be late and miss the milk!” she exclaimed excitedly.

“What milk?”

“It’s on special offer. A maximum of ten litres per person, so we can take five each. We won’t be able to carry any more. It’s a shame we had to sell the car.”

“Why do we have to drag around ten litres of milk. It’ll take us months to drink and it’ll be bloody heavy!”

“Fine then, if you don’t want to carry it, I’ll just take my five!” said his mother angrily. Her mood improved, however, as soon as she entered the shop. “Oh, look, look!”

“What?”

“Cheese tasting! It’ll be those really good ones, come on and we’ll try some!” she said, pulling Štěpán by the sleeve. He had to avoid this at all costs, because whether it was free potato-cakes at political rallies or meat-paste samples at the supermarket, one portion or one piece of sausage was never enough for his mother. And there was no sense in trying to talk her out of it.

“On you go. I don’t feel like it. I’ll go and get the milk in the meantime.”

“Oh, come on! You love cheese. And look – three kinds!”

“On you go and eat to your heart’s content, but please don’t force me.”

“As you like then!” she said and rushed excitedly to the cheese.

His mother took cocktail stick after cocktail stick of squares of cheese, saying she couldn’t decide which one was the best. If someone had taken a photograph of her, the commentary would go something like: How a little free food robs one of one’s remaining dignity. Or maybe: How willing we are to surrender our dignity for some free food.

“I’ll take some for my son too. He’s shy, but he doesn’t know what he’s missing!” she said confidentially to the shop assistant. Štěpán watched in horror as she headed straight towards him. “So you don’t miss out,” she said with cheese nibbles in both hands.

“Christ, Mum, I know we don’t have any money, but do we really need to do this?!”

“What kind of a way is that to talk to me?” she shouted. “Is it my fault we’re lumbered with you? And that we can never buy these cheeses with our pension and the money we get from you?! Do you know how much they cost?”

He didn’t say anything. There was no point. He looked around him. Special offer! Special offer! Special offer!

“I’ll go and get that milk,” he said. The rest of the shopping went by in silence. Each of them lugged their five litres home. His mother tried to talk to him a couple of times, but eventually it wore even her out.

Štěpán then shut himself in his room. It was starting to get dark, but he didn’t turn on the light. He thought of nothing, just watched the approaching darkness.

The following days went by like carbon copies. Look through the ads, occasionally inquire somewhere about vacancies and then meekly leave.

Štěpán could still hear his mother’s outburst in the supermarket. He had the same thoughts, day in day out: ‘How the fuck didn’t I know? I’m still dependent on them, but what can I do? A mortgage is a pipedream, I can’t even afford to rent with the dole money, and anyway, I’ll only get it for a few months. And what if I don’t find work? What the fuck then? What am I doing wrong? Probably everything. I’m a useless piece of shit. No girlfriend, no job, no flat. Without anything, without everything!

He felt like banging his head against the wall. He even did it a couple of times. He needed to feel something more than his inadequacy. Be conscious of something more. Even physical pain was better, even that strange sounding bang of his head against the wooden panel.

He felt tired and succumbed to apathy. When he phoned a number from an ad, he hoped no-one would answer. He no longer believed he’d find something and he couldn’t take any more rejections. Occasionally in front of his parents he would pretend to be talking to someone: “You no longer have the vacancy? Well, OK, then. Of course. I’ll give you my email address… I’d be grateful if you called. Thank you!”

His mother and father didn’t know what was going on, but something was wrong. Štěpán was getting up later and later, locking himself in his room. “Do you not want a coffee? You should get some fresh air – it’s lovely outside! It’ll do you good,” said his mother. That’s just it – it is so nice, he said to himself. I know it, but I don’t feel it. I don’t feel anything.

“You’re a young lad! Are you gonna spend the rest of your life lying down?” said his father, sounding a familiar note.

At times he was close to tears. Anxiety crept up on him in unexpected situations. In the queue at the check-out, at the kitchen table, in the pub after his first beer – on the rare occasions he’d let his friends talk him into going out.

“And what about work? Anything yet?” was the traditional question.

He’d shake his head.

“How long have you been signing on?”

“More than three months.”

“Soon you’ll be part of the long-term unemployed. We had that recently in an economics lecture. And what do you actually want to do?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know exactly. I’ll see what turns up. There’s not much to choose from round here, is there?”

“Why don’t you try going to college? At least you wouldn’t be sitting at home.”

“Maybe I should roll a joint instead?” he suggested when he was at his wit’s end.

The occasional shopping trip and the visits to the job centre became his only contact with society. He felt nervous and uncomfortable when he was outside, he had a headache almost every day and suffered from palpitations. He’d return home as fast as he could. When he dressed in the morning, drops of sweat ran down his armpits. One day he didn’t take his pyjamas off. His fingers paused at the buttons. Why bother? There’s no point, I’m just torturing myself. Brushing my teeth, breakfast, pretending. My hands and back ache. It hurts all over. I can’t straighten my legs. I need to lie down and sleep. Lie down and sleep. The darkness will come and everything will be OK. I’ll hide away again, I won’t bother anyone, I won’t get in anyone’s way.

He went back to bed and closed his eyes. He felt as though he’d never lift his arms again. He remembered the priest he had shared the Start cigarettes with. Is this the moment when I should devote those ten minutes of my life to God? Believe in Him? But how? I don’t know how to do it. I don’t know how to believe in God.

“Are you OK? Are you ill?”

“Let me sleep, Mum,” he answered.

“Let’s at least get some fresh air and sunshine in here, yeah?”

“Whatever.”

“We need to air this place and tidy up the mess too.”

Štěpán closed his eyes.

“I can’t just stand by and watch this! What is it with you? If you’re not ill, why don’t you get up and do something?” she asked both nervously and accusingly.

“I can’t. I just can’t,” he replied quietly.

She sat beside him on the bed and took his hand.

“I’m worried about you, and I don’t know how I can help you if you don’t talk to me. You barely eat!”

Her son looked into her eyes, “I’m useless, Mum. I’m a pile of crap, that’s all.”

“How can you say that? You’re a clever, charming young man and…”

“It’s OK… I’ll come and see you in the kitchen, but just leave me alone now, OK?”

His mother stood up without saying anything.

It was his father who had a talk with him a few nights later.

“So you say there’s nothing wrong with you, but you’re disappearing in front of our very eyes. This is how it started with that girl from next door, d’you remember her? She stopped going out, lost weight. And then she poisoned herself.”

He remembered her well. The chestnut-haired beauty who first became a walking shadow and then ended up as ash.

“Don’t you…maybe want to go and see one of those psychiatrists?” asked his father delicately.

The sound of the river stole through the half-open window into the kitchen. Štěpán wished he was in that river, letting himself be carried along by the current and buffeted against the rocks, hearing only the roar of the elements. That was all he wanted.

“I guess so,” came the quiet response.

Progress was slow – much slower than all three of them had hoped. But there was progress. Even though he still didn’t go out much, Štěpán felt calmer. The pain in his arms and legs subsided, depression released its claws. Thanks to the medication he could sleep, although he was still woken by oppressive dreams, his sheets soaked in sweat. However, any thoughts about the future invariably plunged him into nothingness. He was terrified by his mere existence. The pills kept his anxiety at bay.

His father walked around him on tiptoes, his mother cooked meat and vegetables. “So you’ll regain your strength!” she would emphasize. They loved him.

When his psychiatrist recommended a period of hospitalization, he quickly replied: “The three of us can manage at home.” He hoped he would be able to repay them when the time came.

After two months of treatment he was woken one morning by the phone.

“Hi! Are you still out of work or have you found something?” asked his friend, the former leader of a long-since disbanded bunch of junkies. He always got straight to the heart of the matter.

“Hi, Jenda… I’m a bit under the weather just now, but still signing on.”

“Listen, you know how my folks have got that antiques place? Well, they need someone to look after it from time to time. Would you be up for it?”

Štěpán sat up in bed. “But I don’t know anything about it…about antiques and stuff. I don’t know if I’d manage it. How come you thought of me anyway? I haven’t seen you in years!”

“I was having a few drinks with Jana at the weekend and she mentioned seeing you a while ago at the job centre. Apparently you looked a bit of a hopeless case. She gave me your number. Hey, you wouldn’t believe the places she has tattoos…ha-ha! But we can talk about that another time! Listen, no-one’s interested in that old junk anyway, don’t expect any queues. You’d only be there if neither of my folks had time. And then we’ll see what happens after that. I’ve already told them you’d do it. So the day after tomorrow at eight in the morning?”

“The day after tomorrow…at eight…in the morning. Well, I guess so.”

“No ‘guess so’, just come. Bye for now then.”

No begging, no multi-stage interviews. Apparently, all it took to solve one of life’s major fuck-ups was to answer a call from a former addict. Thanks for your ten minutes, God. Štěpán began to shake from his familiar fear of failure. But he’d go there. He would go.

The first thing that surprised him was the smell, then the sight of the furniture, the paintings, the porcelain. He was entering into a world of old lives.

“So you’re Štěpán, right? Welcome!” said a charismatic grey-haired man, shaking his hand. “Sit yourself down. I’ll walk, if you don’t mind – I always have to be on the move. So listen…”

He listened, looked around and breathed. He walked home calmly. He felt that the trees, people and houses he passed might accept him again. And he would accept them.

He watched over the shop diligently. He learned how to distinguish materials, he absorbed information. He listened to the ticking of the old clocks. Occasionally he sold something. And when the sun shone on the wooden floor of the antiques shop, and in the afternoon reached the copper moulds hanging on the wall, there was a moment of reconciliation.

 

Translated by Graeme Dibble