Prague by Arthur Phillips Read Free Book Online Page B

boots. "I do not sell these, of course. For now." The shopkeeper returned to the desk and riffled through more paintings leaning against the back wall. "Here, we find it," he exclaimed, and turned to face Mark with another golden frame, this one smaller. Two Hungarian hunting dogs, vizslas, lay awake on a floor of chessboard
     
    black-and-white tiles. A young boy knelt beside them and rested one hand on the head of each dog. He wore short pants, a velvet shirt, and a lace collar. A woman, presumably his mother, wore her dark hair loose, and it fell over her shoulders and blood-red dress. She smiled slightly from within the embrace of a large ornate chair. She held a baby in flowing baptismal clothes. Standing beside her, his hand on her shoulder, in front of half-open French doors revealing a green park, stood—yet again, to Mark's delight—a man with the shop owner's face. Now he wore an expression of serene, paternal pride, his head again tilted slightly back. His uniform featured long tails over tight white trousers. An eyebrow was slightly cocked. He wore no mustache and his long black hair was held in a short ponytail, but the resemblance was otherwise total.
     
    "This," the owner said as his finger hovered near the baby in the baptismal gown, "is my great-grandfather, the father of him." He gestured toward the headless mannequin. "This boy, soon after this"—he pointed to the elder child with the dogs—"died. This is lucky, I think. For my line. The picture is done in 1822. The boy with the dogs, who is dead, is five here. His father, my great-great-grand, I think is born in 1794. He was a nobleman, you can see."
     
    "All the men in your family serve in the military?" The antique dealer clicked his tasseled-loafer heels, and Mark asked if there was a picture of the man himself in uniform.
     
    "Of course, of course," he replied, and his English began to grow oddly worse: "But is not of pride. It only, you must know, tradition one way and desire another." Mark nodded encouragingly. "I have a picture, but I find it very little." He brought out a small plastic photo album, turned a few of its pages, and pointed to a black-and-white snapshot glued under a cellophane sheet. "This is when I am twenty. I am in a base near Gyor and we train against Austrian invasion. A ridiculous idea, you know, to think we fight Austrians in 19 70."
     
    The photograph showed a young crew-cut soldier in green fatigues, staring at the camera, holding his floppy cap. His head was angled slightly downward, and his broad smile appeared almost shy as a result. His eyes wrinkled up tightly as if he were facing bright sunlight. His face was tanned and cleanshaven. "This one here is you?"
     
    "Yes, yes, of course. But it is not like my father or grandfather, is it?" The man was not referring to any physical dissimilarity. "I am not a free man here who fights for his people, am I? No. I am here a boy who has no choices. To fight in that Hungarian army was like to be a slave for Russia. It was like the Hun-
     
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    garian Legion of the Russian Soviet Imperial Army. My father fought for Hungary. My grandfather fought for his emperor. My great-grandfather and his father—these were proud men. And they carry arms for their people and their families and their land, for Magyarorszag, for Hungary. And I?" He stared hard at Mark, his resemblance to his painted ancestors growing^'m 1970 I must join a conqueror's army. I should be an officer, a cavalry officer to be commanding, but I am instead a slave, or a trophy, like when my family's land becomes a collective farm. And I can never be a high officer, because my family history make me a class criminal, you understand. What must I do? Hey? What?"
     
    "I don't know."
     
    'A soldier fights, but a Hungarian cannot accept this lie of an empire, this Russian shit. What do I do? Do I fight like a brave man or do I say no like a brave man?"
     
    "I don't know."
     
    "I do what my grandfather