The salesman had certainly been telling the truth. He had measured my chest, wrapped strips of parchment around me, jotted everything down, put it all into an envelope, and taken my deposit. When I went to pick up the suit in Pardubice, it fit like a glove, but what I really wanted to know was where my inflated figurine, my torso, was. The boss of the place was as short as I was, and seemed to understand that I wanted to be taller, and how important being up there among the other torsos near the storeroom ceiling was for me, so he took me there to see it. It was a magnificent sight. Up near the ceiling hung the torsos of generals and regimental commanders and famous actors. Hans Albers himself had his suits made here, so he was up there too. A draft from an open window made the torsos move about like little fleecy clouds in an autumn wind. A thin thread bearing a name tag dangled down from every torso, and the tags danced gaily in the breeze, like fish on a line.
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