The Unbearable Lightness of Being

by Milan Kundera

  When Tereza entered the room that night, she found him talking not to Kennedy but to a man of about sixty whom she had never seen before and who fell silent as soon as he saw her.

  It's all right, said the ambassador. She's a friend. You can speak freely in front of her. Then he turned to Tereza. His son got five years today.

  During the first days of the invasion, she learned, the man's son and some friends had stood watch over the entrance to a building housing the Russian army special staff. Since any Czechs they saw coming or going were clearly agents in the service of the Russians, he and his friends trailed them, traced the number plates of their cars, and passed on the information to the pro-Dubcek clandestine radio and television broadcasters, who then warned the public. In the process the boy and his friends had given one of the traitors a thorough going over.

  The boy's father said, This photograph was the only corpus delicti. He denied it all until they showed it to him.

  He took a clipping out of his wallet. It came out in the Times in the autumn of 1968.

  It was a picture of a young man grabbing another man by the throat and a crowd looking on in the background. Collaborator Punished read the caption.

  Tereza let out her breath. No, it wasn't one of hers.

  Walking home with Karenin through nocturnal Prague, she thought of the days she had spent photographing tanks. How naive they had been, thinking they were risking their lives for their country when in fact they were helping the Russian police.

  She got home at half past one. Tomas was asleep. His hair gave off the aroma of a woman's groin.

  8

  What is flirtation? One might say that it is behavior leading another to believe that sexual intimacy is possible, while preventing that possibility from becoming a certainty. In other words, flirting is a promise of sexual intercourse without a guarantee.

  When Tereza stood behind the bar, the men whose drinks she poured flirted with her. Was she annoyed by the unending ebb and flow of flattery, double entendres, off-color stories, propositions, smiles, and glances? Not in the least. She had an irresistible desire to expose her body (that alien body she wanted to expel into the big wide world) to the undertow.

  Tomas kept trying to convince her that love and lovemaking were two different things. She refused to understand. Now she was surrounded by men she did not care for in the slightest. What would making love with them be like? She yearned to try it, if only in the form of that no-guarantee promise called flirting.

  Let there be no mistake: Tereza did not wish to take revenge on Tomas; she merely wished to find a way out of the maze. She knew that she had become a burden to him: she took things too seriously, turning everything into a tragedy, and failed to grasp the lightness and amusing insignificance of physical love. How she wished she could learn lightness! She yearned for someone to help her out of her anachronistic shell.

  If for some women flirting is second nature, insignificant, routine, for Tereza it had developed into an important field of research with the goal of teaching her who she was and what she was capable of. But by making it important and serious, she deprived it of its lightness, and it became forced, labored, overdone. She disturbed the balance between promise and lack of guarantee (which, when maintained, is a sign of flirtistic virtuosity); she promised too ardently, and without making it clear that the promise involved no guarantee on her part. Which is another way of saying that she gave everyone the impression of being there for the taking. But when men responded by asking for what they felt they had been promised, they met with strong resistance, and their only explanation for it was that she was deceitful and malicious.

  9

  One day, a boy of about sixteen perched himself on a bar stool and dropped a few provocative phrases that stood out in the general conversation like a false line in a drawing, a line that can be neither continued nor erased.

  That's some pair of legs you've got there.

  So you can see through wood! she fired back. I've watched you in the street, he responded, but by then she had turned away and was serving another customer. When she had finished, he ordered a cognac. She shook her head. But I'm eighteen! he objected. May I see your identification card? Tereza said. You may not, the boy answered. Then how about a soft drink? said Tereza. Without a word, the boy stood up from the bar stool and left. He was back about a half hour later. With exaggerated gestures, he took a seat at the bar. There was enough alcohol on his breath to cover a ten-foot radius. Give me that soft drink, he commanded.

  Why, you're drunk! said Tereza. The boy pointed to a sign hanging on the wall behind Tereza's back: Sale of Alcoholic Beverages to Minors Is Strictly Prohibited. You are prohibited from serving me alcohol, he said, sweeping his arm from the sign to Tereza, but I am not prohibited from being drunk.

  Where did you get so drunk? Tereza asked. In the bar across the street, he said, laughing, and asked again for a soft drink.

  Well, why didn't you stay there? Because I wanted to look at you, he said. I love you! His face contorted oddly as he said it, and Tereza had trouble deciding whether he was sneering, making advances, or joking. Or was he simply so drunk that he had no idea what he was saying?

  She put the soft drink down in front of him and went back to her other customers. The I love you! seemed to have exhausted the boy's resources. He emptied his glass in silence, left money on the counter, and slipped out before Tereza had time to look up again.

  A moment after he left, a short, bald-headed man, who was on his third vodka, said, You ought to know that serving young people alcohol is against the law.

  I didn't serve him alcohol! That was a soft drink!

  I saw what you slipped into it!

  What are you talking about?

  Give me another vodka, said the bald man, and added, I've had my eye on you for some time now.

  Then why not be grateful for the view of a beautiful woman and keep your mouth shut? interjected a tall man who had stepped up to the bar in time to observe the entire scene.

  You stay out of this! shouted the bald man. What business is it of yours?

  And what business is it of yours, if I may ask? the tall man retorted.

  Tereza served the bald man his vodka. He downed it at one gulp, paid, and departed.

  Thank you, said Tereza to the tall man.

  Don't mention it, said the tall man, and went his way, too.

  10

  A few days later, he turned up at the bar again. When she saw him, she smiled at him like a friend. Thanks again. That bald fellow comes in all the time. He's terribly unpleasant.

  Forget him.

  What makes him want to hurt me?

  He's a petty little drunk. Forget him.

  If you say so.

  The tall man looked in her eyes. Promise?

  I promise.

  I like hearing you make me promises, he said, still looking in her eyes.

  The flirtation was on: the behavior leading another to believe that sexual intimacy is possible, even though the possibility itself remains in the realm of theory, in suspense.

  What's a beautiful girl like you doing in the ugliest part of Prague?

  And you? she countered. What are you doing in the ugliest part of Prague?

  He told her he lived nearby. He was an engineer and had stopped off on his way home from work the other day by sheer chance.

  11

  When Tereza looked at Tomas, her eyes went not to his eyes but to a point three or four inches higher, to his hair, which gave off the aroma of other women's groins.

  I can't take it anymore, Tomas. I know I shouldn't complain. Ever since you came back to Prague for me, I've forbidden myself to be jealous. I don't want to be jealous. I suppose I'm just not strong enough to stand up to it. Help me, please!

  He put his arm in hers and took her to the park where years before they had gone on frequent walks. The park had red, blue, and yellow benches. They sat down.

  I understand you. I know what you want, s
aid Tomas. I've taken care of everything. All you have to do is climb Petrin Hill.

  Petrin Hill? She felt a surge of anxiety. Why Petrin Hill?

  You'll see when you get up there.

  She was terribly upset about the idea of going. Her body was so weak that she could scarcely lift it off the bench. But she was constitutionally unable to disobey Tomas. She forced herself to stand.

  She looked back. He was still sitting on the bench, smiling at her almost cheerfully. With a wave of the hand he signaled her to move on.

  12

  Coming out at the foot of Petrin Hill, that great green mound rising up in the middle of Prague, she was surprised to find it devoid of people. This was strange, because at other times half of Prague seemed to be milling about. It made her anxious. But the hill was so quiet and the quiet so comforting that she yielded fully to its embrace. On her way up, she paused several times to look back: below her she saw the towers and bridges; the saints were shaking their fists and lifting their stone eyes to the clouds. It was the most beautiful city in the world.

  At last she reached the top. Beyond the ice-cream and souvenir stands (none of which happened to be open) stretched a broad lawn spotted here and there with trees. She noticed several men on the lawn. The closer she came to them, the slower she walked. There were six in all. They were standing or strolling along at a leisurely pace like golfers looking over the course and weighing various clubs in their hands, trying to get into the proper frame of mind for a match.

  She finally came near them. Of the six men, three were there to play the same role as she: they were unsettled; they seemed eager to ask all sorts of questions, but feared making nuisances of themselves and so held their tongues and merely looked about inquisitively.

  The other three radiated condescending benevolence. One of them had a rifle in his hand. Spotting Tereza, he waved at her and said with a smile, Yes, this is the place.

  She gave a nod in reply, but still felt extremely anxious.

  The man added: To avoid an error, this was your choice, wasn t it?

  It would have been easy to say, No, no! It wasn't my choice at all! but she could not imagine disappointing Tomas. What excuse, what apology could she find for going back home? And so she said, Yes, of course. It was my choice.

  The man with the rifle continued: Let me explain why I wish to know. The only time we do this is when we are certain that the people who come to us have chosen to die of their own accord. We consider it a service.

  He gave her so quizzical a glance that she had to assure him once more: No, no, don't worry. It was my choice.

  Would you like to go first? he asked.

  Because she wanted to put off the execution as long as she could, she said, No, please, no. If it's at all possible, I'd like to be last.

  As you please, he said, and went off to the others. Neither of his assistants was armed; their sole function was to attend to the people who were to die. They took them by the arms and walked them across the lawn. The grassy surface proved quite an expanse; it ran as far as the eye could see. The people to be executed were allowed to choose their own trees. They paused at each one and looked it over carefully, unable to make up their minds. Two of them eventually chose plane trees, but the third wandered on and on, no tree apparently striking him as worthy of his death. The assistant who held him by the arm guided him along gently and patiently until at last the man lost the courage to go on and stopped at a luxuriant maple.

  Then the assistants blindfolded all three men.

  And so three men, their eyes blindfolded, their heads turned to the sky, stood with their backs against three trees on the endless lawn.

  The man with the rifle took aim and fired. There was nothing to be heard but the singing of birds: the rifle was equipped with a silencing device. There was nothing to be seen but the collapse of the man who had been leaning against the maple.

  Without taking a step, the man with the rifle turned in a different direction, and one of the other men silently crumpled. And seconds later (again the man with the rifle merely turned in place), the third man sank to the lawn.

  13

  One of the assistants went up to Tereza; he was holding a dark-blue ribbon.

  She realized he had come to blindfold her. No, she said, shaking her head, I want to watch.

  But that was not the real reason why she refused to be blindfolded. She was not one of those heroic types who are determined to stare down the firing squad. She simply wanted to postpone death. Once her eyes were covered, she would be in death's antechamber, from which there was no return.

  The man did not force her; he merely took her arm. But as they walked across the open lawn, Tereza was unable to choose a tree. No one forced her to hurry, but she knew that in the end she would not escape. Seeing a flowering chestnut ahead of her, she walked up and stopped in front of it. She leaned her back against its trunk and looked up. She saw the leaves resplendent in the sun; she heard the sounds of the city, faint and sweet, like thousands of distant violins.

  The man raised his rifle.

  Tereza felt her courage slipping away. Her weakness drove her to despair, but she could do nothing to counteract it. But it wasn't my choice, she said.

  He immediately lowered the barrel of his rifle and said in a gentle voice, If it wasn't your choice, we can't do it. We haven't the right.

  He said it kindly, as if apologizing to Tereza for not being able to shoot her if it was not her choice. His kindness tore at her heartstrings, and she turned her face to the bark of the tree and burst into tears.

  Her whole body racked with sobs, she embraced the tree as if it were not a tree, as if it were her long-lost father, a grandfather she had never known, a great-grandfather, a great-great-grandfather, a hoary old man come to her from the depths of time to offer her his face in the form of rough tree bark.

  Then she turned her head. The three men were far off in the distance by then, wandering across the greensward like golfers. The one with the rifle even held it like a golf club.

  Walking down the paths of Petrin Hill, she could not wean her thoughts from the man who was supposed to shoot her but did not. Oh, how she longed for him! Someone had to help her, after all! Tomas wouldn't. Tomas was sending her to her death. Someone else would have to help her!

  The closer she got to the city, the more she longed for the man with the rifle and the more she feared Tomas. He would never forgive her for failing to keep her word. He would never forgive her her cowardice, her betrayal. She had come to the street where they lived, and knew she would see him in a minute or two. She was so afraid of seeing him that her stomach was in knots and she thought she was going to be sick.

  15

  The engineer started trying to lure her up to his flat. She refused the first two invitations, but accepted the third.

  After her usual stand-up lunch in the kitchen, she set off. It was just before two.

  As she approached his house, she could feel her legs slowing down of their own accord.

  But then it occurred to her that she was actually being sent to him by Tomas. Hadn't he told her time and again that love and sexuality had nothing in common? Well, she was merely testing his words, confirming them. She could almost hear him say, I understand you. I know what you want. I've taken care of everything. You'll see when you get up there.

  Yes, all she was doing was following Tomas's commands.

  She wouldn't stay long; long enough for a cup of coffee; long enough to feel what it was like to reach the very border of infidelity. She would push her body up to the border, let it stand there for a moment as at the stake, and then, when the engineer tried to put his arms around her, she would say, as she said to the man with the rifle on Petrin Hill, It wasn't my choice.

  Whereupon the man would lower the barrel of his rifle and say in a gentle voice, If it wasn't your choice, I can't do it. I haven't the right.

  And she would turn her face to the bark of the tree and burst into tears.
r />   16

  The building had been constructed at the turn of the century in a workers' district of Prague. She entered a hall with dirty whitewashed walls, climbed a flight of worn stone stairs with iron banisters, and turned to the left. It was the second door, no name, no bell. She knocked.

  He opened the door.

  The entire flat consisted of a single room with a curtain setting off the first five or six feet from the rest and therefore forming a kind of makeshift anteroom. It had a table, a hot plate, and a refrigerator. Stepping beyond the curtain, she saw the oblong of a window at the end of a long, narrow space, with books along one side and a daybed and armchair against the other.

  It's a very simple place I have here, said the engineer. I hope you don't find it depressing.

  No, not at all, said Tereza, looking at the wall covered with bookshelves. He had no desk, but hundreds of books. She liked seeing them, and the anxiety that had plagued her died down somewhat. From childhood, she had regarded books as the emblems of a secret brotherhood. A man with this sort of library couldn't possibly hurt her.

  He asked her what she'd like to drink. Wine?

  No, no, no wine. Coffee, if anything.