Farewell Waltz

by Milan Kundera

  He stopped the sedan at a spot with a scenic view. They got out, and he suggested they take a walk in the forest. They walked a few minutes and then sat down on a wooden bench dating from the time when people went by car less and appreciated excursions in the forest more. He kept his arm around Ruzena's shoulders and suddenly said in a sad voice: "Everybody imagines

  I have a very happy life. That's a big mistake. I'm really very unhappy. Not only these last few months, but for several years now."

  If Ruzena regarded the idea of a trip to Italy excessive and thought about it with vague suspicion (very few of their fellow citizens were allowed to travel abroad), the sadness that emanated from these words of Klima's had for her a pleasant odor. She sniffed it as if it were roast pork.

  "How can you be unhappy?"

  "How I can be unhappy…" said the trumpeter with a sigh.

  "You're famous, you've got a beautiful car, you've got money, you've got a pretty wife…"

  "Maybe pretty, yes…" the trumpeter said bitterly.

  "I know," said Ruzena. "She's not young anymore. She's your age, right?"

  The trumpeter saw that Ruzena was probably fully informed on the subject of his wife, and this angered him. But he went on: "Yes, she's my age."

  "You're not old. You look like a kid," said Ruzena.

  "But a man needs a woman younger than he is," said Klima. "And an artist more than anyone else. I need youth, you can't imagine, Ruzena, how much I appreciate your youth. I sometimes think I can't go on like this. I feel a frantic desire to free myself. To start all over again and in another way. Ruzena, your phone call-suddenly I was sure it was a message sent by fate."

  "Really?" she asked softly.

  "Why do you think I called you back right away? All at once I felt that I couldn't lose any more time. That I had to see you right now, right now, right now…" He fell silent and gazed into her eyes for a long while: "Do you love me?"

  "Yes. And you?"

  "I love you madly," he said.

  "Me too."

  He leaned over her and put his mouth against hers. It was a healthy mouth, a young mouth, a pretty mouth with prettily shaped soft lips and carefully brushed teeth, with everything in place, and the fact is that two months earlier he had yielded to the temptation of kissing these lips. But precisely because that mouth had charmed him, he had seen it at the time through a mist of desire and knew nothing of it in reality: the tongue had been like a flame and the saliva had been an intoxicating liqueur. Only now, having lost its charm, was the mouth suddenly what it was, a real mouth, an industrious orifice through which the young woman had already taken in cubic meters of dumplings, potatoes, and soups, a mouth containing teeth pocked with fillings and saliva that was no longer an intoxicating liqueur but the cousin of a glob of spit. The tongue in the trumpeter's mouth had the effect of an unappetizing mouthful impossible to swallow and unseemly to remove.

  The kiss finally over, they got up and set off again. Ruzena was almost happy, but she was well aware that the reason she had telephoned the trumpeter and had

  compelled him to come here was oddly being avoided in their conversation. She had no desire to discuss it at length. On the contrary, what they were talking about now seemed more pleasant and more important to her. Yet she wished that this reason, now being passed over in silence, were present, even if only discreetly and modestly. And so when Klima, after various declarations of love, announced that he would do everything he could to live with Ruzena, she pointed out: "You're very sweet, but we have to remember that I'm no longer all alone."

  "Yes," said Klima, and he knew that this was the moment he had dreaded from the very first, the weakest link in his demagogy.

  "Yes, you're right," he said. "You're not alone. But that's not really the main thing. I want to be with you because I love you, and not because you're pregnant."

  "Yes," said Ruzena.

  "Nothing's more horrible than a marriage that has no other reason than a child conceived by mistake. And actually, darling, if I may speak frankly, I want you to be the way you were before. There should be just the two of us, and nobody else in between. Do you understand me?"

  "Oh no, that's not possible, I can't agree to that, I never could," Ruzena protested.

  She said this not because she was convinced of it deep down. The definitive word she had gotten from Dr. Skreta two days earlier was so fresh that she was still disconcerted. She was not following a minutely

  calculated plan but was completely absorbed by the idea of her pregnancy, which she was experiencing as a great event and still more as a stroke of luck and an opportunity that would not so easily come again. She was like a pawn reaching the end of the chessboard and becoming a queen. She was delighted by the thought of her unexpected, unprecedented power. She saw that at her summons things had been set in motion, the famous trumpeter coming from the capital to see her, to take her for a drive in a magnificent car, to make declarations of love to her. No doubt there was a connection between her pregnancy and that sudden power. If she did not wish to give up her power, she could not give up her pregnancy.

  That is why the trumpeter had to go on rolling his heavy stone uphill. "Darling, it's not a family I want, it's love. For me, you are love, and when there's a child, love gives way to family. To boredom. To worries. To monotony. Lover gives way to mother. For me, you're not a mother but a lover, and I don't want to share you with anyone. Even with a child.''

  These were beautiful words, and Ruzena heard them with pleasure but shook her head: "No, I couldn't. It's just as much your child. I couldn't get rid of your child."

  Unable to find new arguments, he kept repeating the same words and dreading that she would finally see through their hypocrisy.

  "You're over thirty. Haven't you ever wanted a child?"

  True, he had never wanted a child. He loved Kamila too much for her to be hampered by the presence of a child. What he had just asserted to Ruzena was not pure invention. He had in fact been uttering exactly the same words to his wife for years, sincerely, without deceit.

  "You've been married six years and don't have a child. It thrills me so to think of giving you a child."

  He saw that everything was going against him. The exceptional nature of his love for Kamila convinced Ruzena of his wife's infertility and inspired misplaced audacity in the nurse.

  It began to grow chilly, the sun was sinking toward the horizon, time was passing, Klima went on repeating what he had already said, and Ruzena repeated her "No, no, I couldn't." He felt that he was at a dead end; he no longer knew what to do and thought he was going to lose everything. He was so nervous he forgot to hold her hand, forgot to kiss her, forgot to put tenderness into his voice. He realized this with dread and tried hard to pull himself together. He stopped, smiled at her, and took her in his arms. It was a tired embrace of fatigue. He clasped her to him, his head pressed against her face, and it was actually a way of leaning on her, of resting, catching his breath, because it seemed to him that he lacked strength for the long road still ahead.

  But Ruzena too had her back against the wall. Like him she had run out of arguments, and she felt you could not go on for long merely repeating "no" to a man you wanted to win.

  The embrace lasted a long while, and when Klima let Ruzena slip out of his arms she lowered her head and said in a resigned tone: "All right, tell me what I should do."

  Klima could not believe his ears. These were sudden and unexpected words, and they were an immense relief. So immense that he had to make a great effort to control himself and not show it too clearly. He caressed the young woman's cheek and said that Dr. Skreta was a friend of his and all Ruzena had to do was appear before the committee in three days. He would go with her. She had nothing to be afraid of.

  Ruzena didn't protest, and he regained the desire to continue playing his role. He put his arm around her shoulders and again and again stopped talking to kiss her (his joy was so great that the kisses were once more obscured by a
veil of mist). He repeated that Ruzena should move to the capital. He even repeated his words about a trip to the seashore.

  Then the sun disappeared below the horizon, the darkness deepened in the forest, and a round moon appeared above the tops of the fir trees. They went back to the car. As they were reaching the road they found themselves in a beam of light. For a moment they thought it was the headlights of a passing car, but it became instantly obvious that the light was focused on them. The beam was coming from a motorcycle parked on the other side of the road; a man was on it, watching them.

  "Hurry up, let's go. Please!" said Ruzena.

  When they were near the car, the man on the motorcycle got off and moved toward them. Klima could only make out a dark silhouette because the parked motorcycle was lighting the man from behind, and the trumpeter had the light in his eyes.

  "Come here!" the man shouted, rushing toward Ruzena. "I have to talk to you. We've got things to talk about! A lot of things!" His voice was tense and confused.

  The trumpeter too was tense and confused, and all he could feel was a kind of irritation at the lack of respect: "The young lady is with me, not with you," he announced.

  "You too, I have to talk to you, you know!" the stranger screamed at the trumpeter. "You think because you're famous you can do anything you want! You figure you're going to play games with her! That you can turn her head! It's very easy for you! I could do the same thing if I were you!"

  Ruzena took advantage of the motorcyclist's focus on the trumpeter to slip into the car. The motorcyclist leaped toward the door. But the window was closed and the young woman turned on the radio. The car resounded with loud music. Then the trumpeter also slipped into the car and slammed the door. The music was deafening. Through the windshield they could only make out the silhouette of a screaming man and his gesticulating arms.

  "He's a madman who's always following me," said Ruzena. "Quick, please let's get going!"

  10

  He parked the car, took Ruzena to Karl Marx House, gave her a kiss, and when she disappeared behind the door, felt as tired as after four sleepless nights. It was getting late. Klima was hungry and didn't feel even strong enough to take the wheel and drive. He yearned to hear soothing words from Bertlef and walked across the park to the Richmond.

  Arriving at the entrance, he was struck by the sight of a large poster lit by a street lamp. His name was on it in big, clumsy letters, and below it, in smaller letters, were the names of Dr. Skreta and the piano-playing pharmacist. The poster had been done by hand and included an amateur drawing of a golden trumpet.

  The trumpeter considered it a good omen that Dr. Skreta had arranged the concert promotion so quickly, because such speed seemed to indicate that Skreta was a man he could count on. He went up the stairs in a hurry and knocked at Bertlefs door.

  There was no answer.

  He knocked again, and again there was no answer.

  Before he could think whether he was arriving at the wrong time (the American was known for his many relationships with women) his hand pushed down on the door handle. The door was unlocked. The trumpeter went into the room and stopped. He could see nothing. Nothing but a glow coming from a location on

  the wall of the room. It was a strange glow; it did not resemble the white light of a fluorescent tube or the yellow one of an electric bulb. It was a bluish light, and it filled the whole room.

  Then a belated thought reached his imprudent fingers and suggested to him that he was possibly being indiscreet by intruding, without the slightest invitation, on people at a late hour. Afraid of being rude, he stepped back into the corridor and quickly closed the door.

  But he was so confused that instead of leaving he remained standing at the door, striving to understand that strange light. He wondered if the American might be naked in his room and taking a sunbath under an ultraviolet lamp. But then the door opened and Bertlef appeared. He was not naked, he was wearing the same outfit he had worn in the morning. He smiled at the trumpeter: "I am glad you have come by to see me. Come in."

  The trumpeter entered with curiosity, but the room was now lit by an ordinary ceiling lamp.

  "I'm afraid I've disturbed you," said the trumpeter.

  "Not at all!" Bertlef responded, pointing to the window where the trumpeter thought he had seen the source of the blue light. "I was just sitting here thinking. That's all."

  "When I came in just before-excuse me for barging in on you like that-I saw an absolutely extraordinary light."

  "A light?" said Bertlef, and he laughed. "You should

  not take that pregnancy with such seriousness. It is giving you hallucinations."

  "Or else maybe it was because I was coming from the very dark corridor."

  "That could be," said Bertlef. "But tell me how things turned out!"

  The trumpeter began his story, and after a while Bertlef interrupted: "Are you hungry?"

  The trumpeter nodded, and Bertlef took a package of crackers and a can of ham out of a cupboard and immediately opened them.

  Klima went on talking, greedily downing his dinner and looking inquiringly at Bertlef.

  "I believe everything will turn out well," Bertlef comforted him.

  "And what do you think about the fellow who was waiting for us by the car?"

  Bertlef shrugged: "I don't know. Anyway, it's no longer important."

  "That's right. I have to think instead about how to explain to Kamila why that conference took so long."

  It was already very late. Comforted and reassured, the trumpeter got into his car and set off for the capital. He was accompanied all the way by an enormous round moon.

  Third Day

  1

  It is Wednesday morning, and the spa is once again awake for an active day. Torrents of water are flowing into tubs, masseurs are kneading naked backs, and a private car has just pulled into the parking lot. Not the big, luxurious white sedan that had been in the same spot the day before, but the ordinary car one can see so many of in this country. The man behind the wheel is about forty-five, and he is alone. The back seat is cluttered with suitcases.

  The man gets out, locks the doors, gives a five-crown coin to the parking-lot attendant, and heads toward Karl Marx House; he walks along the corridor until he comes to the door with Dr. Skreta's name on it. He enters the waiting room and knocks on the office door. A nurse appears, the man introduces himself, and then Dr. Skreta comes out to greet him: "Jakub! When did you get here?"

  "Just now!"

  "Wonderful! We've got a lot of things to discuss. Listen…" he says after a moment's thought, "I can't leave right now. Come with me into the examining room. I'll lend you a coat."

  Jakub was not a physician and had never before

  entered a gynecologist's examining room. But Dr. Skreta had already taken him by the arm and led him into a white room, where an undressed woman was lying on an examination table with her legs spread.

  "Give the doctor a coat," Skreta said to the nurse, who opened a cabinet and handed Jakub a white coat. "Come take a look, I want you to confirm my diagnosis," he said to Jakub, inviting him to go near the patient, who was visibly quite pleased by the idea that the mystery of her ovaries, which despite great efforts had not yet produced any descendants, was going to be explored by two medical specialists.

  Dr. Skreta resumed palpating the patient's womb, uttered some Latin words to which Jakub grunted approval, and then asked: "How long are you staying here?"

  "One day."

  "One day? That's absurdly brief, we won't be able to discuss anything!"

  "It hurts when you touch me like that," said the woman with the raised legs.

  "It should hurt a little bit, it's nothing," said Jakub to amuse his friend.

  "Yes, the doctor's right," said Skreta. "It's nothing, it's normal. I'm going to prescribe a series of shots for you. Be here every morning at six, and the nurse will give you your shot. You can get dressed now."

  "I really came to say goodbye to
you," said Jakub.

  "What do you mean, goodbye?"

  "I'm going abroad. I've got permission to emigrate."

  The woman dressed and took leave of Dr. Skreta and his colleague.

  "What a surprise! I never expected that!" Dr. Skreta marveled. "Seeing that you came to say goodbye to me, I'm going to send these women home."

  "Doctor," the nurse interrupted, "you sent them away yesterday too. We'll have a big backlog at the end of the week!"

  "All right then, send in the next one," said Dr. Skreta with a sigh.

  The nurse sent in the next one, whom the two men glanced at absentmindedly, noting that she was prettier than the last one.

  Dr. Skreta asked her how she had been feeling since she began the baths, and then asked her to undress.

  "It took forever to get my passport. But after that I was ready to leave in two days. I didn't want to say goodbye to anyone."

  "Then I'm all the happier that you stopped here," said Dr. Skreta, and then he asked the young woman to climb up on the examination table. He put on a rubber glove and thrust his hand into the patient.

  "I don't want to see anybody but you and Olga," said Jakub. "I hope she's all right."

  "Everything's fine, fine," said Skreta, but from the sound of his voice it was obvious he was not aware of what he was saying to Jakub. He was concentrating all his attention on the patient: "We're going to do a little procedure," he said. "Don't worry, you won't feel a thing." Then he opened the glass door of a cabinet and

  took out a hypodermic syringe with a small plastic nozzle at the end instead of a needle.

  "What's that?" asked Jakub.

  "During many years of practicing medicine, I've perfected some extremely effective new methods. You might find it selfish of me, but for the moment I consider them my secret."

  Her voice more flirtatious than fearful, the woman lying with her legs spread asked: "It won't hurt?''

  "Not at all," replied Dr. Skreta, dipping the syringe into a test tube he was handling with meticulous care. Then he came close to the woman, inserted the syringe between her legs, and pushed the plunger.