Lovers for a Day

by Ivan Klíma

  He tried not to listen to them. He knew the story; it was always the same, with slight variations. They were the very things he had hoped to avoid for this evening, at least: prisons, watchtowers, floodlights, passageways through barbed-wire. To escape from escaping.

  Whenever he was with her he managed to detach himself – in retrospect, at least – from his entire life and everything he had gone through, and just sink into total amnesia, not thinking about his family or his job. He would enter a different order of cause and effect, actions and words. Maybe the overwhelming completeness of his love lay in this absolute detachment from everything he had ever lived by.

  She was now dancing with the soldier to the scratchy music the Italian jukebox churned out three whole minutes of for one coin. Without looking, he knew the way she was dancing. And it had gone on too long.

  He realized that her dancing had only one purpose, the same purpose as all her other actions. She made love with each of her movements. She made love when she was dancing, when she was eating and when she was walking along the pavement by herself. All her movements were the same. But maybe he was mistaken; maybe it was he who was obsessed.

  ‘Eight years of my life,’ the man with the lump said. ‘I’ll never make up for it at my age.’ Glancing at the man, it occurred to him that they could be the same age, but the other man seemed totally immersed in his past. Those eight years had been too great a void not to exert a pull, too much of a gulf. Besides, the day comes for everyone when all that remains is their past, however awful; it alone is real and alive because the future is no longer alive, and without a glimmer of hope. He still had some hope – at that moment his hope was dancing just a few steps away – and could still imagine tomorrow without a groan of despair. But for how much longer?

  For a split second he saw himself. He saw himself sitting here with weary eyes, weighed down by his whole long life, waiting. He still had something to wait for, which was why he was sitting here impatiently, waiting for the girl to finish dancing and come and sit by him.

  That was where he differed from the three men sitting at his table: his life had still managed to rouse itself to a final shout before the silence that was already stealing up on him every night. It had given out a final ray before nightfall. He was in love, which was why he was sitting here playing a game, mocking himself and his love, why he was playing her game, although for her it is only a game, all that love, the long aimless journeys, those constant protestations that had the strange attraction of words spoken at the edge of the abyss. For her it was a way of filling the time between morning and evening, between dinner and bed, between the last cigarette and sex.

  Anyone could fill that time for her, he knew. For her he was replaceable, utterly replaceable.

  He looked at her. She noticed and smiled.

  He could see that smile even when he closed his eyes, and her mouth with the broad, slightly protruding upper lip.

  He hated her at this moment and longed to push her away from him, get rid of her, rid himself at last of that hope that was no hope, in fact, but instead wearing him out, prolonging the anxiety before the inevitable fall. Rid himself of it and sink into peace at last, reject her, reject life and the future now. But he knew he wouldn’t do it.

  Love me, he thought to himself wearily, love me still today, at least.

  He noticed that the girl who could belong to the soldier was sitting bolt upright at the table, watching the solitary dancing couple. She was not really ugly, but that criminal of a hairdresser had ruined her hair and her face was devoid of any hint of self-assurance. Right now her eyes were full of tears.

  He rose, called the waiter over and settled the bill.

  The rustics stood up and wished both of them the best of luck, while the soldier stood facing her as when they stopped dancing, just a few paces nearer the table, and gazed at her with the fixed expression of a man with just one thing on his mind.

  ‘Darling,’ she said as they went upstairs, ‘that was lovely. We had a feast.’

  ‘I’m glad you were satisfied,’ he said.

  ‘What shall we do now?’

  ‘We’re on our honeymoon, aren’t we?’ he reminded her.

  The beds were old-fashioned and the washbasin boasted two taps, although both of them ran cold.

  She stood in front of the mirror removing her hair grips. Her long hair fell a third of the way down her back. He pictured her back naked, as he would soon see it. And with a sudden feeling of relief that the play-acting and the senseless hours of waiting were coming to an end, he went and put his arms around her. ‘My beautiful girl,’ he said. ‘My little fish.’

  She lit a cigarette. ‘Do you think that soldier is sleeping with the girl?’

  ‘I couldn’t say,’ he said brusquely. ‘Soldiers generally sleep with any girl who happens to be willing.’

  ‘So you think soldiers sleep with any girl,’ she repeated.

  ‘But she was on formal terms with him,’ he recalled. ‘I expect they met for the first time down there in the pub.’

  She was drawing the curtains. ‘He told me he works in films. In “civvy street”. As a lighting technician.’

  ‘They all work in films,’ he said.

  ‘So you think everyone works in films these days?’ Only now did she look around the room. ‘It’s awfully cold in this room, don’t you think?’

  ‘It’s a perfectly adequate room for our purposes.’

  ‘What purposes?’ she asked.

  He didn’t reply. He was used to not listening to her, not paying attention to her when he didn’t feel like it. He just felt the distance between them.

  ‘Are you cross, darling?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ he assured her.

  ‘What shall we do now?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I really don’t know. I’d say it’s too late for the cinema, assuming they’ve got a cinema here.’

  ‘We ought to do something special,’ she suggested. ‘Seeing we’re on our honeymoon.’ She sat down on the bed. ‘Tell me something. Tell me something special at least.’

  ‘Once’ – this was how he used to start stories to his children – ‘when I was your age …’

  ‘No,’ she said, interrupting him, ‘that’s not what I meant. Do you love me?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied quickly. ‘You know I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone.’

  She said nothing. She leaned back on the pillow and half closed her eyes.

  ‘You’re my only and my last love.’

  He kissed her. ‘Sister of my dreams,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I used to wake up in the middle of the night and be afraid I’d never meet you.’

  ‘Did you know me already?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I wished for you. I wished for you whenever I walked down the street, whenever I got into my car, whenever I drove through a landscape I found special, nostalgic or even beautiful. And then every time I went into a hotel reception and opened the door of an empty room, every time I caught sight of a couple kissing. And I wished for you most of all when I was coming home in the summer late at night …’

  ‘Hold on,’ she stopped him, ‘that’s what you always tell me.’

  ‘I’ve never told you that before!’

  ‘I know, I know. But things like that.’

  He said nothing.

  ‘Are you cross?’ she asked. ‘I love it,’ she said quickly. ‘I love it when you say things like that to me … It’s just that today, seeing as we’re on our honeymoon …’

  He said nothing.

  ‘Darling,’ she said, ‘don’t let’s stay here. This is the sort of room we’re always in. All we can do in it is what we always do.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, we’re planning to do what we always do, aren’t we?’

  ‘Yes … but today … today we ought to …’ She went over to the window and drew back the curtain. Against the dark sky loomed the even darker outline of the ruined castle.

  3
>
  They could now see the hill and its castle from the other side. The dilapidated battlements were bathed in moonlight and looked majestic and threatening in the night.

  He stopped the car and switched off the lights. ‘Where to now?’ he asked.

  The night was chilly and the autumnal grass, leaves and mist gave off a scent that was almost nostalgic. It would have been quite pleasant to walk with her along this footpath through the meadow if he had felt like walking.

  ‘The light here is weird,’ she remarked. They were walking along some path that was really no more than trampled grass, his arm round her shoulders. He longed for her and hated her for it.

  ‘Do you remember that night when we were travelling in France?’ she asked.

  ‘It was raining,’ he said. ‘And the path was almost impossible to walk along.’

  ‘Yes. The rain drummed on the roof of the car.’ She shivered with cold. Then she started telling a story out of the blue. ‘When I was about four years old I used to pretend I had a dog. I took him on walks with a lead, as if he really existed. I would wait while he peed against a tree and I’d always put something from my dinner plate into a bowl for him. I used to make up a bed for him out of a cushion beside my own bed and pretend he was lying there. And every night before I went to sleep I would talk to him. I never gave him a name, I just used to call him “my dog”.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t think I ever loved anyone as much as that dog.’

  They had reached a wooden hut in the middle of the meadow. From within came the scent of hay.

  ‘Come on, darling,’ she said, ‘let’s make love now’

  He helped her climb up.

  The space inside was half filled with hay and the air was stiflingly thick with hay dust.

  ‘Darling,’ she whispered, ‘do you like it here?’

  ‘I don’t care where I am when I’m with you,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ she said, quickly undressing, ‘but it couldn’t have been in a bedroom today. You’re not cross with me because of it, are you?’ She pressed herself to him. He put his arms around her. With every movement they sunk deeper into the soft stuff beneath them and the stalks tickled and pricked their naked bodies.

  ‘Darling,’ she whispered.

  From outside came the sound of footsteps. He raised himself and made out a familiar shape.

  ‘So this is the place, then?’ the soldier asked after they had climbed up.

  ‘If you like it here,’ the girl whispered. Her face and even her hairstyle were now hidden in the darkness. The soldier had laid his belt aside ceremoniously the moment he arrived as if loath to make any unnecessary movements.

  ‘You’re so handsome,’ the girl whispered.

  He seemed to be kissing her. All they could hear were short breaths, drunken wheezing, the sound of groping hands, the crackle of the straw and then the girl’s moaning whisper, ‘Don’t worry about me, don’t worry about me, just so long as you’re satisfied.’

  A few minutes later, as silence suddenly fell, the soldier stood up and tried to read the time from his watch by the light of the moon.

  ‘Do you want to go already?’ the girl whispered.

  ‘It s almost midnight,’ the soldier said ruefully. ‘Why didn’t you tell me earlier about this hayloft?’ He spat. Maybe it was only to spit out straw from his mouth. He snapped his belt on again and the two of them climbed down into the darkness almost without a sound.

  ‘Darling,’ she whispered when they were alone once more, ‘do you love me?’

  He tried to make out her face in the dark, but it was so indistinct it could have been any face. Moreover, the scent of her body was smothered by the irritating stench of hay.

  ‘No,’ he said. And he thought to himself, I hate you. Because you make a game out of what for me is love and because you are my only and final future while for you I am simply a moment that’s already passing.

  ‘No,’ she repeated after him. ‘He doesn’t love me.’

  He remained silent. If only he were fifteen years younger.

  ‘He simply doesn’t love me any more,’ she said. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’re …’ but he didn’t continue.

  ‘Because I’m a whore?’ she asked.

  He said nothing.

  ‘So you went off on a honeymoon with a whore?’ She cuddled up to him. ‘My love,’ she kissed him. He held her in his arms.

  ‘At last, at last,’ she whispered. ‘At last.’

  ‘I love you,’ he said. ‘I love you madly and I’d give everything, absolutely everything for this moment with you.’

  ‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘I know. Dog,’ she then said quietly. ‘My dog!’

  (1969)

  Intimate Conversations

  LONG-DISTANCE CONVERSATIONS

  ‘This is Wellington, New Zealand. Is that Prague? Hold the line for a call.’

  ‘Hello. Hello. Is that Prague?’

  ‘This is Prague here.’

  ‘Is that you, Tereza? Can you hear me?’

  ‘Yes, I can hear you.’

  ‘It’s me. Bill.’

  ‘I know. I recognized your voice. And who else would call me from there?’

  ‘How are you, Tereza?’

  ‘Fine now that I can hear you. Can you hear me? How are you?’

  ‘It’s good to hear you. But you sound terribly distant.’

  ‘I know. I’m on the other side of the world.’

  ‘I miss you, Tereza!’

  ‘I miss you, too.’

  ‘I wish I could hold you.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘What’s the news?’

  ‘I’m not sure. None really. The older boy is going to school now and the little one is wrecking the flat and my nerves. I’ve got loads of work. I’m having a new outfit made. I thought about you when I had the fitting, wondering if you’d like me in it. And how about you?’

  ‘Tereza, I told my wife everything.’

  ‘What’s everything?’

  ‘That I love you.’

  ‘You told her about me?’

  ‘I told her I’m in love with you and want to live with you. Didn’t you tell your husband?’

  ‘No … Not yet. Do you think that was wise? What did she say?’

  ‘She didn’t believe me at first. And then – she cried.’

  ‘That’s terrible. Perhaps you should have waited a little longer. Hello? Hello … Are you there? I can’t hear you, Bill. There’s somebody talking Japanese or something on the line. Are you still there?’

  ‘Tereza, can you hear me?’

  ‘Now I can. It’s awful, the distance.’

  ‘Unbearable. That wasn’t Japanese, that was Maori. I don’t see what I’m supposed to wait for – I know I love you.’

  ‘Now I can hear you as if you were in the next room. But it must have hurt her terribly’

  ‘It’s not the telling that hurt her but what happened. And what’s going to happen.’

  ‘It’s all awful. And what are you going to do? What have you agreed with your wife?’

  ‘It wasn’t easy. She told me she might not survive. I need to talk to you about it.’

  ‘Do you mean over the phone, interrupted by someone talking Maori all the time? Surely we can’t talk about life and death matters over the phone?’

  ‘Exactly. I wanted to tell you I’ve decided to fly out to see you.’

  ‘That’s out of the question.’

  ‘Why? I’d take the plane, that’s all. Like last month.’

  ‘But it costs so much.’

  ‘I don’t care about the money. I only care about being with you.’

  ‘How could you be with me? I have my husband here, don’t forget.’

  ‘And you did last month too.’

  ‘Yes, but he wasn’t here. He was away’

  ‘But I expect you could find a moment for me.’

  ‘A moment perhaps. And you’d fly all the way for that?’

  ‘I’d sooner hav
e a moment with you than a life without you. Besides, we need to take some decisions. And you said yourself that these decisions can’t be taken over the telephone.’

  ‘But you were only here a month ago. We could have taken decisions then but we didn’t.’

  ‘We didn’t because there wasn’t the time. And I didn’t realize then how dreadful life would be without you.’

  ‘But we talked about that too, didn’t we? About how we’d miss each other. And you told me you wouldn’t put me under pressure, that I was to take my time and decide for myself.’

  ‘But of course you must be free to make up your own mind. That goes without saying.’

  ‘There you are, then.’

  ‘It would never occur to me to put you under any sort of pressure.’

  ‘That’s okay then. But you want me to come over there and live with you. And I can’t. And I don’t want to either. I can hardly be expected to leave now after staying through all the rotten Communist years? I happen to like this country. And my family’s here.’

  ‘But I’ve never tried to force you.’

  ‘No, you haven’t. But what other hope do we have of living together? After all, you can’t fly back and forth every month.’

  ‘Why not? Anyway, I’ve come up with another solution, apart from flying back and forth.’

  ‘What solution?’

  ‘Sweetheart, I’ve decided to move over there.’

  ‘To Czechia?’

  ‘To your country. What exactly is it called now?’

  ‘Czechia. Czecho, if you like. It makes no difference. But that’s insane. What job would you do here? We’ve no sea.’

  ‘That doesn’t matter.’

  ‘What do you mean, it doesn’t matter? You’re a naval officer and we don’t have any ships.’

  ‘Yes you do, as a matter of fact. I made enquiries. You’ve got five ships.’

  ‘But those ships are out at sea six months at a time.’