How we witnessed the metamorphosis

There's a huge park in Prague. It's called Petrin.

This charming place is haunted by masses of those desperately in love. These unfortunates wander the paths in groups, whispering conspiratorially in the bushes, tenderly declaring their feelings and gazing at each other with buttery eyes.

That day, a beautiful and sunny day, Irka and I sat on a bench in Petrin and watched the couples strolling across the lawns.

"What beautiful pictures," Irka yawned, "it's nauseating. I wonder how many of these tender relationships will stand the test of time..."

He fell silent for a moment, stifling another yawn.

"...how many of these people chattering sweetly to each other now will betray each other in the near future, how many will commit gross and downright unforgivable acts, how many will sling mud at each other until they drop, how many will ignore the simplest and most obvious human instincts, and finally, how many will get married and how many will get divorced... And how many will lament that they wasted their time and lives. And how many will curse their youthful naivety and the disastrous decisions they once made... And how many of them will one day display black ingratitude... And how many of them will truly waste their lives...

" "It's very depressing," I muttered.

"Perhaps..." Irka yawned. "I don't know if I'm right in such gloomy prophecies." But I'd bet my money to my wallet that in, say, ten years, they won't be leading each other so happily by the hand...

And he yawned again. Do you know why he yawned so often?

For some time now, my faithful friend had been working as a night cleaner in the Prague metro. He didn't sleep regularly—that's a fact. But the job had the added benefit of considerable, unplanned, and often surprising income. Travelers consistently and en masse lost coins, banknotes, often hideously bulging wallets, watches, carved wedding rings, and other valuable trinkets.

So Irka would return to our studio apartment at the crack of dawn, his pockets bulging with all sorts of loot.

We divided them up equitably, and the profits were used to support our riotous lifestyle.

As a result of this nocturnal activity, my friend had completely lost his rhythm – he was falling asleep at various times and in various positions. Today, he hadn't slept much, so he was also yawning profusely.

Until recently, he had worked in a prominent position as a shift supervisor at the Spare Parts Factory for Everything. Despite his young age, he had almost two hundred people under his command, a decent salary, and bright prospects. But it all ended abruptly – as often happens in life.

Irka was fired for his sense of humor.

The factory was fulfilling numerous orders, and production quotas were exorbitantly high, while the wages for ordinary workers were, on average, meager.

During one of the coffee breaks, Irka organized something resembling a small strike and, having spent two hundred hours, delivered the following speech in front of the director:

"We've had enough! The standards are ridiculously low! What you tell us to do for twelve hours, we easily do in five! And we're ashamed! Because we take money for nothing! And we feel bad when we're not given a chance to earn and earn our wages honestly!"

He was joking, of course, as I said. But it turned out that no one in the audience had a sense of humor. His subordinates considered him an idiot and the management a troublemaker, and he was fired with a bang, his papers messed up. Not for the first time in his life, by the way.

So my former and favorite shift supervisor was sitting with me at Petrina now, yawning profusely.

"Look," he said at one point, pointing at a couple, "do you recognize this guy?"

I narrowed my eyes.

The silhouette seemed somehow familiar. I looked closer and gasped. Walking

towards us, along with a blond beauty, was a certain Honza Blecharz, brother of the notorious Zul and hooligan Zdenek Blecharz.

Due to strong tribal ties and close kinship, Honza was also a Zul. And a vulgar and sleazy one at that.

And now he was marching towards us, but so transformed!

Dressed in a suit, combed, shaved, and scrubbed!

Even his small, pig-like eyes seemed larger, happier, prettier, and more trustworthy.

He embraced the tender blond woman and whispered something passionately into her ear.

He didn't notice us and sat down with her on the bench next to us. We were in the comfortable position of hearing practically every word, so naturally, we listened intently.

"I'm a poet," Honza said, gently moving his hand around the girl's neckline. "Nature, beauty, and the chirping of birds move me.

" "Do you write?" The girl sighed and blushed as she did so.

"Do you write?!" Honza's left eye flickered, observing how his left hand was doing. "I'm procreating like a rabbit... I mean... inspired... Which isn't hard to do when you have such a muse by your side!

" "Who do you mean?" The girl blushed even deeper.

"Who?" Honza feigned indignation. "Oh, you, lady! It's obvious! My sensitive humanist heart beats faster when I look at you!

" "Ah!" – the girl sighed happily – and will you tell me this in fifty years?

– Will I tell?! – Honza became even more indignant – I'll shout, I won't tell! I'm a confirmed monogamist! And if I finally decide to marry someone, it's over!

And he grabbed her by the breast.

The girl jumped as if scalded.

– How dare you?!

"I dare not," Honza explained, not letting go of her, "but it's stronger than me. I need close contact with my muse for my inspiration to increase. It's such an inextricable dependence.

" "I'm sorry," the girl began to struggle, "but I definitely prefer to be a platonic muse! Let me go, let me go!

" "You'll get used to it," Honza muttered, squeezing her even tighter. "You're in the hands of a classic...

" "I don't want to! Let me go!

" "Let me go, Honza!" Irka rose from the bench and walked towards them. "Go find your inspired rhymes elsewhere!"

Honza glared at him and released his grip.

"Stay out of it, Jiri! You have an astonishing gift for sticking your nose in other people's business! And you may regret it sorely!"

"My nose is fine for now," my friend yawned widely, "and I advise you to sniff in other directions."

The girl fled in fright without saying a word.

And Honza rose heavily from the bench and muttered,

"We'll meet again..."

*

We did indeed meet. Honza, along with a group of scoundrels like him, attacked us one evening in a dark alley. And they beat us to a pulp. And the girl from the park was seen in his company more than once after that.

And do you understand the female logic here?