Waxworks in Brighton Revisited

(from "Lady Feltham")

Once again among the waxworks in Brighton. This time it’s a sunny day outside. I’m hoping we will go the whole of the way again, but this time in full summer light. The time before, the first time, it was a cloudy day, it drizzled. Girls in school uniforms got onto the bus at the last Brighton stop. "Is it an orphanage?" I asked. "No, it’s a normal school." Afterwards, by the sea, along the path carved in the cliff, the sea thundered, splintered itself against the white rocks and splinters of downfalling water wet us through. Far and wide, just us two.

In the pub, a lonely patron reads the papers. On the front page – on the side turned to us – is a headline about Czechoslovakia. AFTER PALACH: ANOTHER IMMOLATION. In the evening for a while the sun. Passing through Rottingdean which is laid out as if it were a colour photograph, green lawns, low red-brick houses…

In the waxworks now, for the second time, we are walking between the figures as between the trees in a wood. No paths, no directions. I would like to get out. I am worried we may not be heading in the right direction. But now it is no longer a waxworks, it is a train-compartment and I am on my way home, even though I was supposed to stay another week. Opposite us, a woman with legs pressed together, frozen-faced, silent. She has something in common with us, not only that she is our fellow passenger, but what it is may perhaps be discovered if only I can find out who this woman is. I ask: "Who is it?" "Lady Feltham." Even though I ask over-loudly, the icy woman gives not a single blink. I can’t believe she has the same Jarmila told me. "Who did you say it is?" I ask once again, but Jarmila instead of answering me talks about her having fallen asleep dreaming of colourful teacups tumbling down…

Zbynek Hejda