Utz Read Online Free Page A

– gave mine a painful nip and moved on to attack the pretzels. His forehead was scoured with deep furrows. I stared with amazement at the see-saw motion of his jaw.
    â€˜Ah! Ha!’ he leered at me. ‘English, he? Englishman! Yes. YES! Tell me, is Professor Horsefield still living?’
    â€˜Who’s Horsefield?’ I asked.
    â€˜He wrote kind words about my article in the “Journal of Animal Psychology”.’
    â€˜When was that?’
    â€˜1935,’ he said. ‘Maybe ‘36.’
    â€˜I’ve never heard of Horsefield.’
    â€˜A pity,’ said Orlík. ‘He was an illustrious scientist.’
    He paused to crunch the remaining pretzel. His green eyes glinted with playful malice.
    â€˜Normally,’ he continued, ‘I do not have high regard for your compatriots. You betrayed us at München . . . You betrayed us at Yalta . . .’
    Utz, alarmed by this dangerous turn to the conversation, interrupted and said, solemnly, ‘I cannot believe that animals have souls.’
    â€˜How can you say that?’ Orlík snapped.
    â€˜I say it.’
    â€˜I know you say it. I know not how you can say it.’
    â€˜I will order,’ said Utz, who waved his napkin, like a flag of truce, at the head-waiter. ‘I will order trout. “Au bleu”, isn’t it?’
    â€˜Blau,’ Orlík bantered.
    â€˜Blau yourself.’
    Orlík tugged at my sleeve: ‘My friend Mr Utz here believes that the trout, when it is immersed in boiling water, does not feel more than a tickling. That is not my opinion.’
    â€˜There are no trout,’ said the head-waiter.
    â€˜What can you mean, no trout?’ said Utz. ‘There are trout. Many trout.’
    â€˜There is no net.’
    â€˜What can you mean, no net? Last week there was a net.’
    â€˜Is broken.’
    â€˜Broken, I do not believe.’
    The head-waiter put a finger to his lips, and whispered, ‘These trout are reserved.’
    â€˜For them?’
    â€˜Them,’ he nodded.
    Four fat men were eating trout at a nearby table.
    â€˜Very well,’ said Utz. ‘I will eat eels. You also will eat eels?’
    â€˜I will,’ I said.
    â€˜There are no eels,’ said the waiter.
    â€˜No eels? This is bad. What have you?’
    â€˜We have carp.’
    â€˜Carp only?’
    â€˜Carp.’
    â€˜How shall you cook this carp?’
    â€˜Many ways,’ the waiter gestured to the menu. ‘Which way you like.’
    The menu was multilingual: in Czech, Russian, German, French and English. But whoever had compiled the English page had mistaken the word ‘carp’ for ‘crap’. Under the heading CRAP DISHES, the list contained ‘Crap soup with paprika’, ‘Stuffed crap’, ‘Crap cooked in beer’, ‘Fried crap’, ‘Crap balls’, ‘Crap à la juive . . .’
    â€˜In England,’ I said, ‘this fish is called “carp”. “Crap” has a different meaning.’
    â€˜Oh?’ said Dr Orlík. ‘What meaning?’
    â€˜Faeces,’ I said. ‘Shit.’
    I regretted saying this because Utz looked exceedingly embarrassed. The narrow eyes blinked, as if he hoped he hadn’t heard correctly. Orlík’s wheezy carapace shook with laughter.
    â€˜Ha! Ha!’ he jeered. ‘Crap à la juive . . . My friend Mr Utz will eat Crap à la juive . . . !’
    I was afraid Utz was going to leave, but he rose above his discomfiture and ordered soup and the ‘Carpe meunière’. I took the line of least resistance and ordered the same. Orlík clamoured in his loud and crackly voice, ‘No. No. I will eat “Crap à la juive” . . . !’
    â€˜And to begin?’ asked the waiter.
    â€˜Nothing,’ said Orlík. ‘Only the crap!’
    I tried to swing the conversation to Utz’s collection of porcelain. His