Hating Old People

Hating Old People - Part 3

I found her on Wikipedia. Milada Šubrtová born 1924, leading soprano of the National Prague Theatre. She sang countless arias, won awards and drew acclaim for roles in operas I'd never heard of. She looked similarly dramatic and sirenesque in the series of black and white photos scattered across the web. I found snippets of arias; scratchy mp4s and even listening to those, I could hear the power and clarity of her voice. She was a beautiful singer. But for such an acclaimed performer, there was very little I could glean about her life, even the badly translated Czech entries. One site mentioned a husband, who was clearly no longer on the scene, and no children, although the man with the car was the right age to be her son.

I was surprised at how little I could find online. Google - usually so adept at ferretting out the obscure - was doing an inadequate job. I snapped the laptop shut and brooded on it for a few days and then decided the best place for answers was the source. My pride, which had been hurt at my abrupt dismissal, had since softened to a mild discontent - and now curiosity won out.

The heat of summer hung across Malastranka like a wet towel and I considered taking off my jacket. It would certainly be cooler, but I some how felt vulnerable without it, prone to injury from the push and pull of Milada's erratic behavior. I decided to keep it on.

I reached her door and paused to catch my breath. I was sweaty and flushed, but I wasn't turning back now. I knocked.

I waited for long minutes, suddenly feeling uncertain. I'd drummed up my courage to return and now I was standing on her doorstep like a forgotten sock hanging from a laundry line. So much for my army jacket bravery. I was half way down the steps when some one called behind me.

"Co pro Vás mohu udělat?"

I stopped and turned.

"Sorry?"

"Oh, you Engleesh." The woman was wearing a pajama style outfit, blue pants and pink tunic. She was young, almost my age and her pale eyes watched me with curiosity.

We stood awkwardly for a moment and when I realized she wasn't going to speak again, I asked, "Is Milada in?"

"Sorry, my Engleesh. Not good." She gave an apologetic smile.

"Milada?" I tried again.

"Sick today," she said. "No... um.. návštěvníků." She gave a shrug, rattled off something in Czech and watched me intently when she finished, like she was waiting for comprehension to sift down from the sky. She made no motion to invite me in and her body blocked the view of the hallway. I looked up at the top story windows, ready to see Milada's cheery face grinning down at me, but dark curtains blocked the view.

"Ah..." I felt the heat rise more solidly to my cheeks. I'd come to confront Milada, wanting answers, and now I was being shooed away by a... a nurse? "Tell her Be- Alessandra came by."

"Ok," the woman smiled, and feeling exposed under her gaze, I hurried down the path and out the gate.

I returned two days later, feeling foolish, but unble to help myself. The tingle of curiosity I'd encountered reading her Wikipedia entry, dogged me at school, during meals and distracted me from homework. And if I was honest with myself, I had nothing better to do with the long hours outside of class and no friends to fill my attention.

This time I left the jacket behind and hiked Milada's hill wearing my high collared private girls school uniform. The material was stiff and pulled tight across the chest (my mother had refused to purchase a size fourteen) but I could feel the breeze on my arms and legs. A small blessing from the humid air.

I knocked on Milada's door and waited, fidgeting with the buttons at my neck. I expected the pink clad nurse to open the door but it was Milada herself who stood on the other side of the threshold, looking mildly deflated, but still cheery in an extravagant velvet pant suit and matching house slippers. The red lipstick looked overly bright against her pale face and I noticed her eyeliner was smeared at the corner of her right eye.