Too Noisy Solitude: Pearls from the Bottom

Author: Hrabal
Publisher:
Publish Date: 2003-01-01
Features: Before the autumn of the end of World War II, I bought some blue wrapping paper, a roll of twine, a ball of twine, and some glue. On Sunday, I spent the whole day sitting on the ground making kites. The Romani girl ran for me to fetch beer. I tied the kite frame tightly with fine thread so that it could fly steadily in the blue sky. Then we worked together to make a long kite tail. Under my guidance, the Romani girl tied paper doves to the string, and then we went to Okrovec to fly kites. I threw the kite into the sky, let go of the kite string, then pulled it tight, gave it a few tugs, and the kite stood up straight, motionless in the sky, only the long tail fluttering in the wind, twisting into an S shape. The Romani girl covered her face with both hands, her big, surprised eyes visible above them.
Later, we sat down, I handed her the kite string, and let her pull the kite in the sky. Unexpectedly, she shouted that the kite was going to pull her up into the sky, that she felt like the Virgin Mary ascending. I placed my hands on her shoulders and said, "If that's the case, we'll fly up into the sky together." But she handed the kite string back to me. We sat there, her head resting on my shoulder. Later, I suddenly thought of sending a letter to the kite and handed her the string, letting her hold it. But she panicked again, saying the kite would pull her up into the sky and she would never see me again. With no choice, I stuck the twine-rolling stick into the ground. I tore a piece of paper from my notebook, tore a hole in it, and on the twine. When I picked up the twine again, the Romani girl shouted, raising her arms to chase the paper strip that was spasming up and down the string. Every time the wind blew across the sky, I felt the kite tugging at my hands, the sensation spreading from my fingers to the tips of my toes. When the paper strip reached a high point and touched the kite, I felt their contact and couldn't help but shiver. Suddenly, I realized that the kite was God, I was the Son, and the string was the Holy Spirit that connected us to God, that allowed us to speak with God.
For thirty-five years, I have processed waste paper with a hydraulic press, and for thirty-five years, I have believed that there is no other way to do it except like me. But now, I hear that in Bobov there is a giant press that is twenty times more powerful than the one I use now. People who have seen this machine told me that it packs bundles that weigh three or four hundred pounds each, which are then loaded onto trains with forklifts. I said to myself, "You must go see it, Hanka. You must go see it yourself. Pay a ceremonial visit." I went to Bobov. When I saw the amazing glass structure, as big as Wilson's small train station, and heard it rumble as it operated, I couldn't help but tremble all over and couldn't look at it any longer. For a moment, I stood there, turned my gaze elsewhere, then bent down to tie my shoes, unable to face the machine. I have always been like this. When I glimpsed the spine or cover of a precious book among the waste paper, I didn't immediately go to get it. Instead, I wiped the machine's rollers with steel wool. After a while, I finally focused on the pile of waste paper and wondered if I had the strength to pick up the book, open it, and only when I was sure I could did I reach out and pick it up. The book trembled in my hands like a bouquet held by a bride at an altar.
I have been like this for a long time. Back then, I played football for the village club. I knew the team roster wouldn't be posted in the Dorni tavern window until Thursday, but on Wednesday, my heart pounding, I went there. I stood on my bicycle, not daring to look at the window immediately, but instead examined the lock on the window, the frame of the window, and spent a long time reading the name of our club. Only then did I glance at the team roster. But on Wednesday, it still showed last week's names, so I left. On Thursday, I went again, stood on my bicycle, and carefully examined everything except the roster. Only when my emotions finally calmed down did I read the roster carefully, starting with the first team, then the reserves, and finally the juniors, until I saw my name listed as a substitute and was overjoyed.
Now, with the same feelings, I stood before the giant press in Bobov. After my shock subsided slightly, I mustered the courage to look up and saw the machine towering to the ceiling of the hall, like the tall and large altar in the St. Michael's Church in the Prague district of Malá Strana. The machine was even larger than I had imagined, with a conveyor belt as wide and long as the one in the Hole?ovice power plant that slowly delivers coal to the furnace grates. But here, the conveyor belt carried white paper and books. Young male and female workers placed the books on it, their clothing completely different from what I and other waste paper packers wore. They wore orange or sky-blue gloves, American-style caps, overalls tucked up to their chests, with suspenders crossing their shoulders, revealing brightly colored sweaters and turtlenecks underneath. I didn't see a single lightbulb here; light and sunlight streamed in through the walls and glass roof, which was equipped with ventilation. The colorful gloves made me feel particularly inferior, as I had always worked bare-handed, enjoying the pleasure of touching paper. But here, no one had that desire to experience the unparalleled charm that waste paper gave to the senses. The conveyor belt carried books and scraps of white paper upward, just like the automatic escalator in Wenceslas Square that took people to the streets above, delivering these books and paper directly into a large tank, as big as the giant kettle in the Smíchov brewery. When the tank was full, the conveyor belt stopped automatically, and a vertical screw conveyor descended from the top, crushing the paper with terrifying force. Then it happilyed upward, returning to the ceiling, and the conveyor belt started running again. The books and paper shook as they fell directly into an oval tank, as large as the fountain in Charles Square.
Now I was quite calm. I noticed that this press was processing batches and batches of new books. Through the glass wall, I saw trucks delivering packages of books, piled so high that they overtopped the sides of the freight car. These new books were sent directly to the pulp mill, without a single page having been stained by human eyes, minds, or souls. It was only then that I realized that at one end of the conveyor belt, some workers were unloading the packages, taking out brand-new books, tearing off the covers and spines, and throwing only the clean inner pages onto the conveyor belt. The books fell with their pages open, but no one looked at them. In fact, it was impossible to look, because the conveyor belt had to be full and could not stop, unlike me, who could stop beside the machine. Here, in Bobov, the work was inhuman, like a whaling ship, where the crew pulled up a net full of fish, sorted out the big ones and the small ones, and threw them onto different conveyor belts, directly into the canning machines in the hold. One after another, fish after fish, book after book.
Taking a deep breath, I climbed the stairs onto the platform surrounding the oval tank, and walking on it gave me the feeling of being in the brewing workshop of the Smíchov brewery, circling around the giant kettle that could brew five hundred thousand liters of beer at a time. Leaning on the railing, I stood there as if on a two-story scaffold, overlooking the scene below. I saw dozens of colorful buttons flashing on the control panel, like a power plant. The screw conveyor was running, crushing the books in the crushing tank with such immense force that it was as if someone absentmindedly crumpled a train ticket in their fingers. I looked around in panic, then at the male and female workers who were working below. Sunlight streamed through the glass walls onto them, their colorful clothes, sweaters, and hats dazzlingly bright. These workers were colorful, as if a group of birds from a foreign land—kingfishers, Norwegian red-breasted robins, parrots—but what terrified me was not that. I felt a sense of fear and unease because I suddenly and accurately realized that this giant machine would be a fatal blow to all small presses. I suddenly understood that what I was seeing meant that my industry had entered a new era. These people worked differently. I realized that the tiny joy of the small waste paper collection station had ended—that was when we found a precious book mistakenly thrown away as waste paper. Here, I saw that people's ways of thinking were also different. Even if each worker could take one book from every publication to take home as a benefit, even if they might read it, everything was over for me and my fellow packers. We old packers had gained knowledge unintentionally, and unknowingly, our homes had become small libraries filled with books we had found in the waste paper. We read them and felt happy, hoping that one day the books we read would bring a qualitative change to our lives.
However, the greatest blow to me was seeing these young workers shamelessly drinking milk and soft drinks. They spread their legs, one hand on their hips, directly drinking from the bottle with gusto. Then I knew that the old era had truly ended—the era when workers knelt on the ground, bare-handed, fighting their way through the waste paper. Thus, every old-style worker was half dead from exhaustion, covered in dirt, and had to roll their bodies into the machine to work.