The Tale of the Villager Pusa

     The inhabitants of the village of Pochcály were a peculiar kind of Homo sapiens. Everyone, from small children to old-timers, wore bright green rubber boots. Not just for work, but also to weddings, funerals, trips, concerts, exhibitions, and fairs. Why should they waste time tying shoelaces? Rubber boots were universal. They didn’t care about fashion. They preferred practicality and utility.
     The villagers were irked by their fellow citizen, twenty-year-old Břetislav Kajetán Pusa. He was cut from a different cloth. He stood out from the rest. He refused to wear the uniform boots and shunned the fruitless sitting and idle chatter in the smoky pub. He spent his time quite differently.
     At home, he educated himself in various scientific fields. He mastered grafting fruit trees, knew all kinds of medicinal plants, could identify many insects, knew how to collect edible mushrooms, practiced his favorite beekeeping, and adored astronomy.
     He lived alone in his parents’ cottage. He had no commitments. He didn’t associate with others and didn’t seek their company. It’s no wonder the locals considered him a crazy loner and an oddball.
     Over time, the surrounding nature became mundane to him. His monotonous life no longer entertained him.
     A strange idea sprouted in his mind. He decided to explore distant eastern lands. He chose the vast Indian subcontinent as the goal of his journey.
     He knew German and English from school. He didn’t speak any other foreign language. Before the trip, he enthusiastically plunged into studying oriental languages. He went to the nearby town and bought self-study books at an antiquarian bookstore. At night, he learned Arabic, Swahili, Tamil, Elamite, Bengali, Hindi, Telugu, Marathi, Urdu, Gujarati, Malayalam, Kannada, Punjabi, Assamese, Kashmiri, Sindhi. He even added the Indian variant of English, known as Hinglish.
     After half a year, he spoke these unusual languages fluently.
     At last, the long-awaited day arrived. At dawn on the first of May, he locked his cottage, got behind the wheel of a Zetor tractor, started the ignition, shifted into first gear, and set out into the world. As everyone knows, a tractor doesn’t go fast-it’s a farm machine. Its speed can’t compare to passenger cars. On the other hand, Břetislav had a certain advantage: he could calmly enjoy the beauty of the surrounding countryside while driving.
     After several months, he finally arrived in mystical India. He had plenty of time to travel the entire subcontinent far and wide.
     On the fifth day in the morning, he found himself in a small village. Not a soul in sight. Only in front of a reed hut, under a sprawling mulberry tree, sat a bald man on a metal chair. He had a blue dot the size of a pea painted in the middle of his forehead. His long gray beard reached to his waist.
     Břetislav turned off the engine, got off the vehicle, and walked toward the humble hut. As he approached, he was struck by the villager’s absent expression.
     “Why are you sad, man?”
     “How could I not be! Today my forty-first son was born,” said the old man.
     He wasn’t even surprised that Břetislav spoke his native language.
     “That’s why you’re grieving? You should rejoice and celebrate his arrival in this wondrous world!”
     “That’s easy for you to say. One thing troubles me greatly. I don’t know what name to give him!”
     Břetislav thought. He pondered and pondered. Then his gaze fell on the tractor.
     “Let him be called Zetor!”
     The old man’s face lit up.
     “Thank you so much for your advice! Yes, it will be Zetor! Zetor Rádživ Brahma Gomalí.”
     “A beautiful name!” agreed Břetislav.
     “You’ve helped me greatly! I’ll be grateful to you for the rest of my life,” said the Indian.
     “It’s nothing.”
     “Oh, it is! Not everyone has such an open heart.”
     “Since I’m here, I’ll help you with your work,” said Břetislav.
     He hitched an iron plow to the tractor, climbed into the seat, and set off across the field.
     In two hours, he was done.
     The Indian beamed with happiness. He couldn’t believe that fate had brought him such a skilled and selfless person.
     “For helping me choose a name and plowing the field for free, I’ll reward you.”
     The old man went into the house and brought out a small wicker basket, handing it to Břetislav.
     “This is your reward.”
     “What do I need a basket for?”
     “Just open it carefully!”
     Břetislav slowly lifted the lid. When he did, he nearly died of fright.
     “It’s a cobra!”
     “Yes. A real, genuine Indian cobra. Our national symbol.”
     “So this is my reward for my kindness! It’ll bite me!”
     “Don’t worry! This snake won’t harm you. It’s harmless. Its venomous fangs have been removed. From now on, it’s your friend.”
     “Thank you very much for such a companion!”
     “It’s not just any creature. It can do extraordinary things.”
     “Like what?”
     “It can translate any text into various languages.”
     “For example, into German?”
     “Not just German. Even into Syriac, Russian, or Japanese.”
     “Let it say in German: I have a headache.”
     Before Břetislav could react, the snake straightened up and spoke in a human voice: “Der Kopf tut mir weh.”
     Then the snake curled up into a ball.
     “I must admit, it’s a unique animal.”
     Meanwhile, the Indian covered the basket with the lid.
     “As you can see and hear, it works as a living translation dictionary.”
     “What am I supposed to do with it?”
     “You’re asking questions I can’t answer,” replied the native, annoyed, and disappeared into the house. He never reappeared.
     Břetislav grabbed the basket. He wasn’t exactly thrilled with the gift. He placed the basket on the tractor bed.
     Then he set off on his journey.
     After several weeks, he arrived at an ancient wooden monastery.
     The devout monks welcomed him enthusiastically: “Look, brothers, a white man has visited our land. Where do you come from, friend?”
     “From the village of Pochcály.”
     “Pochcály? We’ve never heard such a strange name before.”
“It’s a rather insignificant, God-forsaken hamlet in Central Europe.”
     “Oh, I see.”
     The men were surprised that he answered in their language. They were taken aback by his perfect accent and flawless pronunciation.
     They invited him into the sanctuary and offered him roasted rye flatbread and strong dark tea.
     Břetislav sat down among them on the floor. The monks were silent. They seemed burnt out and exhausted to him. Without energy or spark.
     “What unpleasant thing happened to you, that you’re so downcast? Are you in need?”
     The chief patriarch said: “We don’t suffer from poverty. Something much worse has befallen us. For a year now, we’ve been struggling to translate ancient religious texts. We’re stuck. We’ve come across very difficult passages. We rack our brains over how to render them adequately in contemporary literature.”
     Břetislav remembered the living gift. Now it came in very handy.
     “I’ll step out for a moment,” said the young man.
     The monks didn’t understand his actions.
     Before they realized, he was back with the basket.
     “Don’t be alarmed, inside is a special snake that will solve your problem,” said Břetislav.
     “A snake?”
     “Yes. A real Indian cobra.”
     “Get that creature out of here!”
     “It’s a peaceful animal. You don’t need to worry. It doesn’t even have venomous fangs. Besides, it has extraordinary abilities. It can translate anything! It even knows some so-called dead languages, like Sanskrit.”
     The holy men looked at him with suspicion.
     Břetislav carefully removed the lid.
     The monks were frightened: “It’s huge! An unbelievably large specimen!”
     The snake slowly raised its head and carefully observed the wise men.
     “Well, test its knowledge,” urged Břetislav, “give it a sentence.”
     The head of the monastery said: “Let it translate the well-known Latin text: ‘Stabat Mater dolorosa, juxta crucem lacrimosa, dum pendebat Filius…’”
     The creature immediately began: “The sorrowful Mother stood, beside the cross weeping, while her Son hung there…”
     “Incredible!”
     “I told you! It has extraordinary abilities.”
     “What do you want for this remarkable being?”
     “Nothing. I’ll give it to you as a token of your hospitality.”
     “This creature is priceless! Even if weighed in gold, it wouldn’t be enough.”
     “That’s how you see it. I see it differently. Ever since I was a child, I’ve been afraid of such animals. I’m very happy to leave the snake with you.”
     “I must repay you somehow,” said the head of the monastery, “in return, I’ll give you a gift as well.”
     He pulled something out from under his robe and handed it to Břetislav.
     “What is it?”
     “A book.”
     “A book?” the young man wondered, “I have shelves full of those at home.”
     “But it’s not just any book.”
     “Is it magical, perhaps?”
     “You guessed it! It contains all human knowledge and accumulated wisdom.”
     “Such a unique encyclopedia will surely come in handy in life.       
     Thank you very much.”
     “Shanti shanti,” replied the spiritual leader.
     Both sides were satisfied.
     Břetislav spent the night at the monastery and early the next morning bid the monks a friendly farewell. Then he climbed onto the tractor. He started the engine. The iron steed coughed contentedly and slowly set off down the dusty road.
     Days passed by. There was no place in vast India that Břetislav didn’t visit. Enriched with knowledge and experiences, he came to the conclusion that the time had come to return home.
     To be honest, he was starting to miss his homeland.
     The journey back seemed endless!
     He crossed the state border on May 2nd, exactly a year and a day later.
     As he passed through the provincial town of Kolenovo, he saw a wrinkled woman sitting on a wooden bench in the park. She was weeping and lamenting.
     He jumped off the machine and sat down beside her.
     “What misfortune has befallen you, old lady?”
     The poor woman raised her head and looked at Břetislav.
     “A great tragedy has happened to me, boy. I must tell you about it. Long ago, I worked as the head chef in the famous and luxurious Hermitage Hotel in Monaco on Square Beaumarchais, which was decorated in the Belle Époque style. I was in charge of preparing all sorts of unusual and exquisite dishes.”
     The old woman wiped her moist eyes with a silk handkerchief and continued:
     “Yesterday, the owner of the renowned local restaurant visited me. He told me that at the end of this month, he expects a very rare and important guest. Apparently, it’s an influential senator! He’s already ordered a unique delicacy: Burgundy snails. The cooks at his restaurant don’t know how to handle the problem. The owner heard about my past and asked if I could prepare the famous dish myself. I’d love to help him. But even if you killed me, I can’t remember how it was done. My memory has failed me. How will I explain it to him? He’s pinning all his hopes on me, and unfortunately, he’ll be disappointed. He’ll think: That moldy old hag belongs in the scrapyard!”
     The old lady fell silent. Tears welled up in her eyes again.
     “Nothing is lost! Everything can be easily fixed,” said Břetislav.
     He pulled the precious volume from his breast pocket and found the chapter on Burgundy snails (Escargots de Bourgogne).
     “Here it is. In black and white! Listen carefully, mother!”
     The old woman pricked up her ears.
     Břetislav began to read: “Keep the live snails in a box for a week so they empty themselves. Then throw them into boiling water, and after fifteen minutes, you can take them out of their shells.”
     “Do you understand everything, granny?”
     The old woman nodded. She smiled contentedly.
     Břetislav continued: “Remove the black tail and cook the clean meat with celery stalks, white wine, onion, carrot, and thyme for about three hours. Place the cooked snails into pre-boiled shells or special ceramic dishes and fill the remaining space with garlic butter. Prepare the butter from regular butter, crushed garlic, ground shallots, finely chopped parsley, pepper, and salt. Bake everything in a preheated oven at a moderate temperature so the butter doesn’t burn, just browns slightly on the surface. Serve the snails with white bread and white wine.”
     “Heaven itself has sent you to me!” the woman rejoiced, “now I remember. That’s exactly how I used to do it!”
     The woman instantly seemed younger. Břetislav even thought the wrinkles on her face had disappeared. Her gratitude was endless.
     Břetislav was glad to have done a good deed. There can never be too many of those! Then he wished the old lady good health and set off further inland.
     He never returned to his native village. He settled in the capital city. He selflessly donated the historic tractor to the technical museum. With the money he’d saved from his exotic travels, he opened a small consulting firm on a well-known busy street. The signboard read “Expert Knowledge for Sale.”
     For a modest fee, he provided legal, technical, medical, and financial services to the public. He gave advice gratis to the simple, poor, and destitute.
     If Břetislav Kajetán Pusa hasn’t died, he’s still giving advice to this day…
 

Translated into English by artificial intelligence