by Ivan Klíma
2
He came in with the shopping and stacked it in the larder, then he went for water and firewood, cleared away the dishes, swept the floor and even dusted the shelves. He had a vague premonition that he would have a visit today.
He had started his leave last week after submitting his grounds for returning the Kozlík case. He had not even waited to see if the prosecutor would file a complaint against his action. He assumed that everything had been agreed beforehand. And even if the prosecutor did file a complaint, he would be back by the time the higher authority delivered its ruling.
He had told his wife he was going to the cottage and she had received the news without comment. Lately, she had not made any demands on him and not tried to explain anything. Either she had reconciled herself with what he had told her or she lacked the strength to persuade him he was wrong.
The evening before Hanuš’s arrival, she had come home in a very strange and wretched state: pale and shaking. His attempts to discover what had happened to her were met with delirious replies. He had wanted to cook her some supper but she told him she was not eating. He had made up her bed and offered to call the doctor, but she forbade him to and asked him to leave her in peace. The next day he had not returned home from the airport. He spent the day with his parents, his brother and his brother’s wife and had driven here in the evening, having invited his brother to bring his wife here on a visit. He had also invited Matěj and Petr. Perhaps one of them would come. Or maybe someone from the village would drop in. They often came to see him with their disputes and enquiries. It was simpler than going to a law centre.
On the other hand, his premonition might be wrong. He picked up the newspaper he had brought with him, but put it down without even opening it. It seemed daft to him to squander such a rare period of absolute peace reading newspapers.
In the sideboard he found a bottle with a remnant of cognac and poured himself a glass before finally opening the window and drawing over a chair to view the landscape. Now he could scan the whole wide horizon far into the distance, like a lifeguard from his basket.
A cool sea breeze blew in through the window and above the steep mountain peaks of Koh-I-Baba there soared an eagle, a creature whose element was freedom.
It was odd how many people had talked to him about freedom – Alexandra had even sensed in him a free creature.
He had indeed been fixated with freedom since his childhood, but had never proved capable of entering it. The war had shown it to him as a gate one might pass through to reach a world which had everything that people longed for and which he was denied: forests and home, bread and butter and warmth and a train you could get off anywhere. It was a gate that could not be opened from the inside – inside all one could do was watch and wait until some more powerful force broke it down from the outside. And so he had pondered less on the gate than on the force that would demolish it. He had never pondered on his own role; all he had to do was to enter the world which that benevolent force had opened up to him.
The benevolent force had appeared and for years afterwards he would still hear that cry of elation and relief: The Russians are here. And again and again he would be standing by that half-demolished fence: blissful, saved, alive – watching his liberators, his rescuers, his dusty angels, pass by.
He had seen freedom as something outside himself and separate from him – he had never learnt to make demands on himself, to require of himself what he required of the world around him. He had made no effort to heed himself in the way he heeded words from outside. He had tried to satisfy others rather than himself.
Had he really wanted to don judge’s attire? To believe in violence? Enforce the law? Bow the knee to the clowns dressed up as rulers, rather than donning a bright-coloured costume himself and laughing at them.
Had he not yearned far more to find a land where he would know he was alive – though it was possible no such land existed; or to wander the woods with a pack to hold his two blankets, his loaf of bread and piece of salami, and then to make love with a wandering female stranger on a crumpled red and yellow costume?
Alexandra had realised it. She had managed to anticipate what was hidden within him and rouse him from his apathy. That was something he should be grateful to her for.
He suddenly heard footsteps. From the sound of them he guessed it was a woman. Someone stopped in front of the cottage and knocked on the door.
He went weak all over and was overcome with such agitation that he needed every ounce of strength to get up and open the door.
It was Magdalena in a black coat and a fur hat, looking to him like a Russian princess who had stepped out of an old painting. He felt a sense of disappointment mingled with relief. ‘It’s you. Where have you come from?’
‘I have to talk to you, Adam. Something dreadful has happened, so I took the liberty of looking for you at home. Your wife advised me to come here.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘Adam, they know everything. About that business – what we did on account of Jaroslav.’
‘Who could they know it from?’
She was aghast at the question. ‘How can I possibly tell?’
He helped her out of her coat.
‘I thought I just had to tell you about it . . . before it’s too late.’
‘I’m glad you came. Shall I put the kettle on for tea or – as you see, I’m hitting the bottle.’
‘I’ll have a drink with you.’
She sat by the stove. ‘You’ve got a nice place here, and it’s nice and warm.’
‘How did you find out they knew everything?’
‘He came to see me at school and showed me his pass. He said they needed to talk to me about Jaroslav. He sat me in a car and drove me all the way to Jihlava. Then we sat in his office. He behaved courteously and even spoke quite sensibly. He admitted that people sometimes got treated with excessive severity these days and sometimes the innocent caught it as well.’
‘He didn’t tell you whose fault it might be, did he?’ It had been his mistake that time when she came to ask for his help. He had meant well, or rather he had felt guilty about her for a long time. But two wrongs didn’t make a right.
‘But he’s small fry. He might not even agree with what’s going on.’
Her gaze was even more evasive than the time when she came to ask for his help. How long ago was it? Only five months. It seemed like five years to him. And it was as if all the things that had happened had started with her arrival. Had she turned up in his life in order to transform it, or had it been just a coincidence? ‘So what was he after?’
‘He said he could understand people trying to avoid reprisals, but I, for my part, had to understand that they had the job of seeing that people didn’t try to do it by illegal means. I was suddenly terrified that he knew something about our deal, but I said that I understood him perfectly. Then he asked me a few questions about how things were at our school as well as about Jaroslav. He asked whether it was true that they had wanted to dismiss him. Then I did something which I suppose was silly. I told him that threat had existed.’
‘It was stupid of you to talk to him at all.’
‘He could have sent me a summons, anyway.’
‘You are not obliged to answer questions about your husband. Not even at an interrogation.’
‘I wouldn’t have answered the question if it was anything important. But after all, everyone knew they wanted to throw him out.’
‘They always start by asking things that are common knowledge.’
‘But I’m not versed in things like that. You never talked to me about it. Then he asked why there was no longer a threat any more. I said I didn’t know. Perhaps they realised that Jaroslav hadn’t done anything wrong. But I had a feeling that he probably knew about the books. He asked me if I didn’t think there might be a connection between the fact he had kept his job at the school and my trip to Prague. And he cited the exact date I came to see you.’
; ‘It wasn’t difficult for him to find out about the trip. After all, you must have applied to the school for leave.’
‘No I hadn’t. It was during the holidays, remember.’
‘So you mentioned it to someone. Or your husband.’
‘He even knew you brought me back at night that time.’
‘He knew it was me?’
‘He knew that someone had brought me back by car. He wanted me to tell him what I was doing in Prague. And who I’d been visiting.’
‘You didn’t tell him, surely?’
‘What was I supposed to say? I couldn’t say I hadn’t spoken to anyone in Prague, could I? Or mention people I hadn’t met at all. Are you cross with me?’
‘What right have I to be cross with you? I got you into the situation. What else did he ask about?’
‘He wanted to know whom I’d met in Prague. I told him old friends. And I mentioned you too. Surely there was nothing wrong with saying you were an old friend of mine. But he knew about you anyway.’
‘How could you tell?’
‘He said: “And he was the one who drove you all the way home that night?” And again he cited the exact date. And the time. And he knew that we left again the same night.’
‘You’ve got observant neighbours.’
‘No, he knew about you. He asked why I had only invited you for such a short visit. I said that my husband and I wanted to consult you about something. He asked what we wanted to consult you about. I said we wanted your advice about what to do if Jaroslav lost his job at the school, of course. That you were the only lawyer I knew. He asked me what you had advised, saying it must have been something very effective, seeing that they subsequently kept Jaroslav on. Then he suddenly asked whether we hadn’t perhaps come for some money.’
‘And what did you reply?’
‘I said that we hadn’t. After all, we hadn’t come for money, had we?’
‘You don’t have to make excuses to me. I won’t convict you of perjury.’
‘But he knew everything anyway. Because then he asked me if I was aware that bribery was a punishable offence and that Jaroslav could be dismissed and the rest of us indicted.’
‘And what did you say to that?’
‘That we didn’t bribe anyone. I was so ashamed, Adam. I’m not used to lying. And on top of that he smiled and said we could talk about it next time. Only he was afraid that the next interview wouldn’t necessarily be as friendly as the one that day. I thought he was going to let me go, but instead he started talking about what would happen if they were to prove attempted bribery. On the part of Jaroslav and myself. Then something awful happened.’
‘Did he know where you had taken the money?’
‘No, he didn’t say anything about it. He said he knew I was a conscientious and principled person and that I might be able to help them in uncovering dishonesty in certain cases. He said that if I acted honestly nothing would happen to any of us. It was awful how he kept on talking about conscientiousness and principles and the fight against dishonesty.’
She tried to light a cigarette but her fingers were shaking.
‘Calm down. They can’t force you to do anything of the sort.’
‘I’m beyond caring now, Adam. I haven’t been able to sleep for the last few nights because of it. What can they want from me? Some tittle-tattle from our common room. It’s nonsense. Our lot are all in the Party. All except me – and Jaroslav. I expect they’ll all be asked for a report on me. But none of them will be able to tell them anything.’
‘Or each of them will tell everything. And one thing is certain: they’ll all be terrified of each other.’
‘They’re all afraid anyway. No one dares to say what he or she really thinks in front of the others. And there’s no escape. So what am I to do? Am I to look on while Jaroslav worries himself to death and my children are prevented from studying so they’ll end up forced to go and slog in some godforsaken Hole? Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘I just remembered something . . . Sorry, I am listening to what you’re telling me.’
‘There’s no more to tell anyway.’
‘Remember the time the two of us were on holiday in Moravia, and the evening you sang with the fellows in the pub.’
‘Yes. I got drunk and you were cross with me.’
‘I wasn’t cross. I was more confused than anything else. I’m incapable of enjoying myself like other people. Afterwards we went upstairs to our room and you took out a whistle, or rather it was a flute, a sort of black flute, if you remember, and you played on it.’
‘I don’t recall that.’
‘All of a sudden it seemed to me that you were radiating light. It was really strange: as if you’d been transformed; you seemed so superior and stupidly I became frightened. I was afraid I’d become subordinated to you. I was afraid not just for myself but for my whole world. You did kindle something in me anyway, without my realising it.’
‘You’re kind to me. I didn’t know I had anything like that in me.’
‘There was life in you. I used to talk about the future. I wanted to do something against war and violence, in the name of those who hadn’t survived, but: there was no life in me. I used to go on about a juster society and about freedom, but I didn’t know what I was talking about. And meanwhile I took away others’ freedom and repressed it within myself. You sensed it all, you didn’t even need to know it, let alone think about it. And all the while, you wanted to leave here and go anywhere where one could live in freedom.’
‘I wanted to go somewhere by the sea.’
‘You longed for the sea, because the sea meant freedom and huge expanses and movement. You were the freest person I ever met in those days.’
‘I don’t know what to say to that.’
He had left her nonplussed. She stood up and crossed the room, stopping in front of the dark window. ‘We used to have an elm in front of the window too, but it died.’ She turned back towards him. ‘It’s a long time ago. I expect I’ve changed since. It’s such a long time.’ She returned to the table and finished her drink. ‘I ought to be going, it’s late.’
‘You don’t have to go if you’re in no hurry.’
She hesitated.
‘I’ll go and get the room ready for you.’ He took a pile of firewood with him, with the newspaper on top.
First he made the bed. Last time he had slept here with his mistress. He could also make her up the bed his wife’s lover had slept on last. We think we’re lacking rights and freedom, but what we lack most of all is moral grandeur. Anyone who had accepted the morals of the mob invoked rights in vain – they wouldn’t help him anyway. Without moral grandeur there was no freedom. He had failed to realise that then. And there was something else he had not realised: that in order to distinguish what was being done in the name of life and what in the name of death, one had to know how to live. She had tried to tell him, to hint it to him somehow, but he had been closed-minded. They had not met at the right moment.
He still had to light the stove. He started to tear the newspaper. As he picked up the last sheet, his eyes fell on a smallish headline:
DOUBLE MURDERER SENTENCED TO DEATH
He read through the nine-line news item which concluded with the information that the convicted Karel K. had appealed against the verdict.
They’d tricked him – the bastards! How had they even managed it in the time? He was seized by a compelling desire to do something. To get in his car and drive to Prague. Only what could he do there now, at this time of night? And what would he be able to do the next morning? Nothing by now. Not a thing!
He struck a match and watched the paper go up in flames, and then left the room.
She was standing outside the door, her hair loose, carrying most of her clothes in her hand. She had just slipped her dress over her naked body. Maybe it was because that was how she must have looked almost every day at this hour of the evening, at the time when they were seeing each other almos
t daily, or maybe it was the twilight, but he felt an intimacy, as if he had gone back those fifteen years.
‘Thanks, Adam,’ she said, ‘I’ll try and find the strength.’
3
The next morning he arrived so early at the courthouse that the corridors still loomed emptily. His boss had not yet arrived. But in the office which he still called his own, he managed to catch Alice.
‘We were trying to get hold of you, Adam!’ she said as he came in. She threw him a sympathetic look.
‘You didn’t go too far out of your way. Do you know anything about that dirty trick?’
‘I phoned you off my own bat. So you’d know at least. The trouble was I only heard about it at the last minute too. He took the file straight back – the moment you left. He took it into his own hands.’
‘Who tried the case?’ he asked. ‘He himself?’
‘Of course! Who else? He notified the witnesses while you were still in Prague. But I knew nothing about it.’
‘It was on his advice that I returned the case. The double-crosser. Why did he give me the case, then, if he didn’t want me to try Kozlík?’
‘But he did – so long as he thought you’d play ball. But then he got cold feet. He’d be blamed for not keeping you under his thumb. What are you going to do now? Aren’t you going to complain?’
‘Who to?’ he asked. ‘And what about, exactly?’
This time his boss could act naturally. There was no pretence of a smile. It struck Adam that the necrophiliac eyes had a satisfied look in them. He had managed to pull off yet another dirty trick. And to cap it all he would soon have the pleasure of viewing his strangled victim.
‘I had second thoughts after all. Guilt was obvious. There was no point getting involved in a battle with them for the sake of a crook like that!’
‘That wasn’t how I saw it.’
‘We tried to find you, but you’d already left.’
The filthy liar. And there were countless like him. Those who stood up to them got swept away. Those who didn’t were gradually transformed in their image. ‘Did he confess?’