PLEASE CALL ME SERVANT, MILENA ODA [read novels website .txt] 📗

and required on special occasions such as serving English royalty – include ceremonial Swedish epaulettes and lend my servant soul significance and extravagance. I fetched the white, silken gloves from the charming isle of service itself. How hard it was to acquire decorous gloves for my clodhopping hands, with thick, knobbly fingers (much longer than the palms). Such gloves can only be bought in London, at ‘Servants’ Utensils’ near Westminster Abbey; they are made of the up-market material Rhovyl, the most expensive and exquisite. The best quality for your servant’s hand, it says on the label. I wear them all the time, like a royal servant. The majestic blend of liveries lends my disfigured body the weight of grandeur, of that noble splendour which makes royal liveries so captivating. The best servant should wear the most exquisite clothing; the elegance of the serving act is thus refined to perfection.
And the Scottish patent leather shoes, ‘Dukes’! The Servant wishes to walk in style, like a duke, and feel the flattering sensation of an aristocratic shoe. Before commencing work each day I polish them till they are spotless. With a wide sole and comfortable forefoot they accommodate my skinny calves and knocked knees. I had two pairs made by a shoe-maker in Bath. I bowed to this maestro and took the patent, double-soled shoes from him, customised to match the footwear of a royal servant. I am full of admiration when someone has the same feeling for perfection that I do! And I also have a pair of dark-grey patent shoes for special occasions, also double-soled, from Madrid, yes Spain, also a notable land of service, but it is too hot for me. I have beige patent shoes from Rome for exceptional circumstances such as accompanying my master to parties and special meetings. For this purpose I have a check Cheviot scarf from Stockholm and a Donegal coat, named after an Irish county, loosely woven from woollen yarn. Thus I am a true attraction among servants! Unfortunately... to date I have not participated (as a servant) in a high-society function.
‘The beauty of all your liveries is highly impressive,’ my master declared, full of admiration. They bring playful grace, charm, joy and efficiency to my job! They cloak my misshapen body – either the enchanting anthracite-blue, English livery, the bewitching scarlet-and-black Dutch/Danish or the leisurely champagne-coloured (or café-crème) Spanish one! (‘It is ridiculous to attempt to conceal such deformity with grandiloquence,’ a certain person jeered when she saw me in front of the mirror, although I forbade her access to my room.) The appearance must be of litheness itself, there is no question of this for the Servant. When I go out shopping or for a walk in my café-crème sortie-livery and my ‘Dukes’ I project self-confidence – balancing just for a second on one leg; my entire weight is then passed to the other leg and taken up with verve. Each step must signify that I am released from thoughts of myself. My proud, confident gait is derived from that of a royal butler! I wish to be surrounded and honoured by admiring eyes. My (cross-eyed) gaze is directed ahead of me; my head and windpipe held free and upright so that I can breathe, allowing all information around me to be absorbed through their mobility. Thus I am ready should I have to protect my master from external attacks. Neither thrusting forward in ambition, nor held back by fear, I pace towards these subservient city folk. Like me, they are at the beck and call of the rich and powerful; they, however, do not acknowledge it – in contrast to me. In my livery I am always in a glorious mood. My greatest pleasure is my pleasure in performing, and others’ pleasure in watching. The passers-by turn and stare at me, speechless. What a strange individual, they whisper. I hear them clearly enough. My confident, serving posture only becomes a perfect, ceremonial form in public or in the presence of my master.
I emphasise my distinction through my attire, and on the subject of intimate relations I will say one thing only: it is unseemly in a servant. Without austerity, no Servant. [...]


Part III: AT THE KING’S COURT


Not yet an English palace, but a master requiring ‘assistance for scientific purposes’. I repeat the requirement, the precise nature of which remains unclear. How strange it is to travel across the city. For the last fifteen years I have barely left my street. My environment has consisted of the four roads surrounding the house I live in, the daily walk in my sortie-livery sufficing.
The journey through the city makes me alert. I stand taut in the bus; I neither talk to anybody, nor gaze inquiringly at anyone. I do not have the strength for strangers’ gazes. My legs give way, my long body buckles, out of my control.
Along the streets, my pace breathless. The people are loud. Following the pavements, lost in the traffic, saved by a friendly gentleman – he could easily be my master. I walk fast down a narrow alley. Fear of the unknown. I see myself as a fearful person, although I have long waited for this unique moment. I must be free of any doubt. Dazed by the journey, I hear the noise of the streets in my gut. There is the house. At last! I stand at my new master’s front door. How long I have waited for this moment! I hear myself ring the bell. I am not told his name. I address him for now as ‘sir’. He will soon reveal the title the humble one is to use when speaking to him.
Half past four on the dot, you’ve managed it. Pull yourself together Servant. Were I not now here at the door, I would be arranging the four-thirty tea-time ceremony, would be taking delight in serving my good master Earl Grey in green china cups with fruit scones. I long for these strong, static, aristocratic traditions; to be one of the finest servants around.

‘Enter!’ A man’s voice calls from behind the door, a voice leading me to expect something noble. How pleasant it is to hear the command ‘Enter!’ – a foretaste of ritual and of a real master! It is a good start.
I step inside. Through the dark passage straight into a bright living room. A small, rotund man with a square skull and a wide, round face sits in a wingback chair by an open window in the huge room – he reminds me of a Swedish bulldog. His sallow, unresting, green eyes observe me earnestly, curling eyebrows arching up as if the man were forced to endure acute pain. His small, open mouth breathes loudly and with effort, and his eyes reveal exhaustion and inertia. Is this the master? I check my posture and my standpoint.
Then the sight of his living room – such chaos! Everything in a mess. I understand now; I have been summoned on account of this disorganisation. He needs a fastidious assistant such as myself. With my acute sense of structure I will create impeccable order amongst his books and papers, make every intractable corner beautiful; I cannot abide negligence.
He heaves himself up from the armchair and cries out, ‘Bohumil, how tall are you? I need to know precisely. Detailed knowledge is my business. I approach data and facts meticulously. Do you know the exact length of your limbs?’
‘Of course, sir.’ I bow in compliance. ‘I am 1 metre 97 tall, my arms are 1 metre and 3 centimetres, my torso is 97.3 centimetres long, my legs 99.5, my feet 33.4. Should I continue?’
‘Highly interesting personal details. Every determinable number relating to your person is of great interest to me. My research field is man and the world as a mathematical figure! You understand what I am saying?’
A pause. He is waiting for my ‘yes’. I am silent. I will not pronounce a ‘no’.
‘You do not I see. It is most simply defined. It is a mathematical – algebraic – discipline! I collect numbers, sums, amounts. I am a well-known number collector. The series of numbers on my sheets is like a series of fine, sunny days. The figures radiate, golden in the sun. The fine weather holds out for as long as I sun myself in it. Continue.’
‘Right thigh 84.4 cm long with a circumference of 68.3, left thigh 86.2 cm and 72.1 cm, right hand 34.3 cm long, 1.4 longer than the left. The right thumb is 15 cm... I know the size of every part of my body by heart, thanks to my bespoke liveries.’
‘Yes, indeed. Discoveries learned through practical application. Brilliant! It is truly a wonder that you know all this. You too are stalked by facts expressed as sums Bohumil? Yes?’
I nod. Why is he calling me Bohumil? Why has he still not asked my name? Call me Servant! I have uttered my heart’s desire 11,638 times.
‘Astonishing! Extraordinary! A kind of aura!’ He offers me a coffee and asks me to sit by him.
The servant cannot – he will not – sit down. He does not consider expressing this inappropriate wish.
‘I would rather stand, thank you. I can answer better.’ (Rule 2.) At the same time I maintain a pleasant, calm expression.
He takes a deep breath, opens his mouth wide and continues to speak. ‘Numbers are ticking everywhere. They are continuous, like a clock or like the stars in the cosmos. Like a butterfly escaping its chrysalis, I cast off the earthly using numbers. Through figures our world becomes more intelligible, more wonderful. Mathematics can indeed exist without mathematicians. Did you imagine I was a mathematician? No, I am a professor of linguistics! Do you speak Czech?’
‘No!’ I force the ‘no’ out. I would love to soar above every question and not hear them, not answer any question I do not know.
‘No matter. There is a wealth of ignorance; one must simply acknowledge it, as Montaigne said. Do you know Montaigne? The third volume is on the second shelf above you.’
Hopefully I will soon understand every word he says. I concentrate solely on the words the stupid one knows, without inquiring as to their significance. They need only provide a mirror to my servile existence; the simple one needs nothing more. I bow respectfully.
He fixes his eyes on my obedient posture: feet adjacent and parallel, legs pressed together, hands aligned to the trouser seam, arms clamped to the body like a grenadier! A serious expression, mouth closed, head held still, eyes like a Great Dane, determined to be the best possible manservant. Now he is noticing how attractive my livery is – or is it my exceptional size which interests him?
‘What is the matter, Bohumil? You are shaking and shuddering. And why are you standing so stiffly by the door?’
‘I am waiting, sir.’
‘What? What for? Do come closer. Come here. Do you want to be a member of my mathematical club, my right hand? Anyone applying for a position here today must reckon to undergo a personality text. This does not involve determining professional abilities; the test provides information on the very personal strengths and weaknesses of the applicants.’
‘Yes,’ I answer immediately, going red. The servant may not redden however, as dogs do not do this either (Rule 11).
‘Seeing is all, Hebbel said, and you will see too. Look at all my books, newspaper cutting and papers: 3,456 periodicals, 12,567 newspaper cuttings and 7,233 books. My search does not just follow any old system! The planets have their system, as Giordano Bruno showed. And the heavens have a theory too; see Kant. I file articles, books and periodicals strictly according to the system “used and unused”, adhering to a scrupulous discipline: used on the right, unused