My Landlady
Kveta knocks on my door. She wants me to tell Tom, my flatmate, that a man will be coming at an undeterminable time in the next two weeks to open his keyless closet. She says this in broken English before finishing with her trademark, “Do you understand?” eyes twinkling, half-smile of hope on her face.
I give her the thumbs up and nod my head a lot.
Ten minutes later Kveta knocks on my door again. She wants to know if I can move a small fridge for her. She has me scope it out, then says we should wait for Tom, but I insist I can do it and we stuff it into her son’s Volkswagen. Afterwards, Kveta tells me a lengthy story about how her first boarder was also a Texan and the best and nicest boy she ever met. “Do you understand?”
Thumbs up on this one. We Texans are good fellas, so much I know.
Ten minutes later Kveta knocks on my door again. She hands me a plate with a chocolate roll cake on it, a thanks for my heavy lifting.
Yes, Kveta, if you speak to my sweet tooth we will always understand each other.
Kveta (pronounced Kuh-vee-et-a) Benesova is my landlady, and one of the sweetest ladies you’ll ever meet. I would place her in her sixties: she’s not much more than five feet, she’s got strange sores on her shins, and one half of a gold tooth up in her gums. If we get right down to it she’s probably more Teletubby than human.
Landladying is not in her blood. Her father was the architect of the entire block I live on, predating the communists, but when the Soviets took over they threw him into jail for being an upstart intellectual, where he passed away. After the Velvet Revolution, the state gave the property back to his family, and hence back to Kveta. The bed I sleep on used to be her son’s, however many years ago, and the rest of the furniture is quaintly dated to years before I was born.
Strangely layered upon this is the fact that Kveta told my other roommate Emily and I that she works as a night nurse. If you own a block of property and you’re a grandmother and you’ve got weird sores on your legs, what on earth are you doing as a night nurse? “Do you understand?”
Sometimes you just smile and nod your head.
Kveta tells us she wants us to feel at home here. She does not just want us to be boarders, but really feel at home. But what does it mean to feel at home? Is it a comfy bed, a lover by your side, the security of friends and fathers and mothers next door? Is it just a key in your pocket? Maybe. I tend to think of it as something more mental and personal—feeling at home means you don’t feel the pressure to act for anyone. This is why “going home” sometimes doesn’t feel like home—we must perform for our parents, or their friends, or even our friends.
But with someone so disarming as Kveta, so naturally trusting and trusted, so old yet as hopeful as a toddler, I’ve got a feeling I’ll be able to feel at home. And hopefully, hopefully, you’ll understand.
I give her the thumbs up and nod my head a lot.
Ten minutes later Kveta knocks on my door again. She wants to know if I can move a small fridge for her. She has me scope it out, then says we should wait for Tom, but I insist I can do it and we stuff it into her son’s Volkswagen. Afterwards, Kveta tells me a lengthy story about how her first boarder was also a Texan and the best and nicest boy she ever met. “Do you understand?”
Thumbs up on this one. We Texans are good fellas, so much I know.
Ten minutes later Kveta knocks on my door again. She hands me a plate with a chocolate roll cake on it, a thanks for my heavy lifting.
Yes, Kveta, if you speak to my sweet tooth we will always understand each other.
Kveta (pronounced Kuh-vee-et-a) Benesova is my landlady, and one of the sweetest ladies you’ll ever meet. I would place her in her sixties: she’s not much more than five feet, she’s got strange sores on her shins, and one half of a gold tooth up in her gums. If we get right down to it she’s probably more Teletubby than human.
Landladying is not in her blood. Her father was the architect of the entire block I live on, predating the communists, but when the Soviets took over they threw him into jail for being an upstart intellectual, where he passed away. After the Velvet Revolution, the state gave the property back to his family, and hence back to Kveta. The bed I sleep on used to be her son’s, however many years ago, and the rest of the furniture is quaintly dated to years before I was born.
Strangely layered upon this is the fact that Kveta told my other roommate Emily and I that she works as a night nurse. If you own a block of property and you’re a grandmother and you’ve got weird sores on your legs, what on earth are you doing as a night nurse? “Do you understand?”
Sometimes you just smile and nod your head.
Kveta tells us she wants us to feel at home here. She does not just want us to be boarders, but really feel at home. But what does it mean to feel at home? Is it a comfy bed, a lover by your side, the security of friends and fathers and mothers next door? Is it just a key in your pocket? Maybe. I tend to think of it as something more mental and personal—feeling at home means you don’t feel the pressure to act for anyone. This is why “going home” sometimes doesn’t feel like home—we must perform for our parents, or their friends, or even our friends.
But with someone so disarming as Kveta, so naturally trusting and trusted, so old yet as hopeful as a toddler, I’ve got a feeling I’ll be able to feel at home. And hopefully, hopefully, you’ll understand.
posted by Avimaan @ 3:20 PM
1 Comments:
At 12:19 PM,
Mark Mulligan said…
Remember "Heimat." Hours upon hours of that german movie still barely describe the usefullness of that obscure german word which we seem to utterly lack in English.
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