by Ivan Klíma
All he knew was that he had to make it to this point: this seclusion, a place between life and emptiness, where his father had once found himself also. But his father had been driven here by a violence so unbridled that it took away his good sense and opened his mind to delusions, whereas he realised now that his own mind was just opening to life,
‘He couldn’t have built it on his own,’ Hanuš declared. ‘It wouldn’t be humanly possible in two years.’
‘Maybe the others helped him a bit,’ Matěj conceded.
‘But you said he built it himself.’
‘So it says in the records. But it could be that nobody noticed the others. All they could see was the individual who decided to build the church by himself.’
‘That didn’t occur to me,’ said Hanuš and put away his calculator.
5
In recent days, she had prayed every night: she prayed for herself, that she should at last find the strength to be humble and manage to be good; she prayed for Adam, that he should awake from his beguilement and at last find peace; she begged the Lord in His mercy to restore their understanding and love, and prayed for her children that they should obtain love and faith and mercy and that their lives should not end in emptiness. And she also prayed for her former lover that he should encounter understanding and human involvement, and for her long-lost friend Maruška that she should conquer her bitterness. She prayed too for the murderer whom she had never set eyes on.
But not even prayer earned her peaceful nights. Suddenly, after so many years, her dead friend Tonka had re-entered her dreams. She would arrive and ring the doorbell, or wait for her near the entrance to the bathing area, and she would find herself walking at her side with a feeling of relief and happiness; then they would swim together in the river until the moment she realised she was swimming alone. She would cry out in terror but already she could see the lifeguards carrying a lifeless body. She rushed over to them and recognised Adam’s face, blue and bloated, water running from his mouth.
Lord Jesus Christ, who died on the cross for our sins, let this cup of bitterness pass from me, grant me a little peace.
She was frightened of going to bed, fearing the anxious dreams and looking forward to Adam’s return. After all, he couldn’t stay there all alone indefinitely (if he really was alone), he had to return to work and come back to the children and her.
And when he did not come, the thought came to her each time that he did not have to return ever, that his departure had been merely a way of informing her – as painlessly as possible – that he was leaving her for the other woman. One day she would find in the letter-box a summons to attend court, and then the court would finally pronounce that the two of them no longer belonged together, even though they had lived ten years together and given life to two human beings. No, Adam could not leave her, he couldn’t do it, because after all they belonged together; they had promised each other that they would stay together in good times and in bad.
Maybe he had already returned to Prague and was living at his parents for the time being. But surely he would not be capable of being so near and not getting in touch.
She called in on her way home from work (she was able to choose a route that took her right past the house on the Old Town Square). She climbed the wooden staircase with beating heart and a dry throat (as if she had done something wrong and was coming to ask forgiveness), rang the doorbell, and quickly rehearsed a few naive excuses in her head to explain why she had stopped by so unwontedly and without letting them know in advance.
Fortunately there was no one in.
As she was coming out on to the square, she noticed in front of the house an old man whose face seemed familiar. He was wearing a hat of the sort worn by painters at the beginning of the century. He was holding a black umbrella and looking straight at her. ‘Excuse me,’ he said to her, raising his hat, ‘do you live here?’
‘No, my husband used to live here,’ she said, although it was no business of his.
‘I wonder if I might make so bold as to trouble you with a question: you wouldn’t happen to know anything about the history of this house, would you?’
She shook her head: ‘I’m afraid not. He might, as he was born here.’
‘The thing is, I’m trying to record the history of the entire square,’ he explained. ‘I have discovered that every stone here, if it were given the power of speech, would have a tale to tell. The patres chose this place well for a statue of a man who was as much a maker of the modern age as Columbus or Gutenberg.’ The old man leaned towards her and said to her in a half-whisper: ‘When I finish the history, it will make your blood run cold!’ He raised his broad-brimmed hat once more and moved away from her with short, crazy steps.
Then she decided to confide in Anka and tell her everything that had happened. So she called her and they arranged to meet; suddenly the hope grew in her that Anka would be able to advise her and would come up with something; or maybe her husband would. Matěj would then drive off to see Adam and tell him he was behaving neither properly nor sensibly and bring him back.
But when Anka arrived, they first talked about children and acquaintances and Anka started to tell her about a teacher friend of hers who had fallen madly in love with one of her pupils, who was twelve years younger than she was; then, when the lad left school, that reckless woman had left her husband and children.
The thought of Anka relating her troubles in similar vein to a third person killed any desire to confide in her. She only said that she knew of lots of marriages which had ended on the rocks lately and people were beginning to look for some other meaning to existence. Oldřich Ruml, for instance, who had always given her the impression of being a trustworthy sort of person, was said to be carrying on with Adam’s colleague at court.
Anka was curious to know what Oldřich’s wife thought about it, and then recalled that she had recently caught sight of her: she was going into a shop with Adam. Anka had scarcely recognised her as she had dyed her hair black.
When Anka left, Alena realised that in the course of their conversation she had learnt something that perturbed her, although it probably meant nothing. After all, Adam would hardly be carrying on with his friend’s wife. And anyway she was such a reprehensibly empty person! But why had he been going to shops with her? And why hadn’t he even mentioned meeting her? She realised there had been no opportunity to mention anything, as they hadn’t spoken together for weeks.
And if Ruml was carrying on with another woman, she realised with sudden concern, his friendship was not binding on Adam. And what sort of friendship was it? The two of them had hardly been seeing each other lately as far as she knew. Adam tended to associate with those who had been persecuted. He had never spoken about Oldřich. Apart from that one single reference to Oldřich’s infidelity. Why had he drawn her attention to Oldřich’s peccadillo, in fact?
She tried to picture Oldřich’s wife. She had not seen her for several years. All she could remember were rich colours: silver nail varnish and long shiny hair bleached almost white, false black eyelashes and an exotic dress made of a material imitating leopard skin. She could not recall exactly when and where she had seen her. And apparently she’d had her hair dyed black!
She couldn’t abide women who wasted enormous time and money at hairdressers, dressmakers and cosmetics counters.
A thought struck her. For a while, she resisted the temptation, and went and washed up the coffee cups. Then she wiped them and put them away. Only then did she go into the front hall, and with the sort of tense curiosity with which we open letters that are not addressed to us but we suspect contain important information about ourselves, she opened Adam’s wardrobe. He only had two suits: one he had taken with him, the other she had recently brought back from the cleaners. A crumpled sweater still lay where he had left it, and on a hanger there was a pair of trousers that he had bought in America; she could not recall when he had last worn them. With sudden shame she picked up the sweater and
brought it out into the light. She really did find several dark hairs on it, but they seemed quite short to her and could easily have been his own.
And even if they were not his hairs, so what? She did not need any proof he had had relations with another woman: he hadn’t denied it.
If it really was Oldřich’s wife, then it was obvious why he had refused so doggedly to reveal the slightest thing about her. It would be just too loathsome and shameful.
She was overcome with excitement; as if she had discovered the mechanism which would open the impregnable gateway at last.
Her first inclination was to rush off to the station that same night and go after him. But what would she say to him? Could she ask him straight out? What if he still didn’t tell her, or didn’t tell her the truth?
When she went to bed, she tried to pray but was unable to concentrate and take her thoughts off her.
Next morning, she started to make a cake, in order to have at least something to take with her for Adam. She put it in the oven and went to wake the children. When they heard about the trip they wanted to go with her and she had to contrive all sorts of reasons why they could not.
To take their minds off it she played at doctors and hairdressers with them, allowing her daughter to invent several different hair-styles for her, and her son to prescribe her some toothache pills. By the time she remembered the cake in the oven, the kitchen was full of thick smoke. She almost burst into tears; it was not a good start to her journey.
She took the children to her mother’s and then went straight to the bus-station.
Dusk was falling when she got off the bus. She still had at least another half-hour’s uphill trek ahead of her.
It had become colder; a cold wind was blowing straight at her. When she finally reached the house, her fingers were so numb with cold she could not even insert the key in the lock. She banged on the door, but no one came to open it. Besides, she had not seen the car. Obviously Adam had not been here at all; he was off gallivanting somewhere with her.
She unlocked the door and went into the kitchen. The stove was cold, the ashes left in the grate; but the washing-up had been done and stood tidily on the draining-board: two cups and two glasses.
She knelt down and lit the stove and then pulled a chair over to it. As the room warmed up she became drowsy.
What if he refused to talk to her yet again? Would he go on repeating that cheap excuse that the two of them were incompatible?
Just tell me one thing: was it her? She made an effort to pronounce the name distinctly: Alexandra?
How did you find out?
I heard about it from someone who saw you together.
He said nothing. He wasn’t brave enough to admit it. He wasn’t afraid to judge other people, but he lacked the courage to own up himself.
How could you have . . . With someone like her! And what’s more, she’s your friend’s wife. It’s shameful. Can’t you see how shameful it is? We may not count for you any more, but what will your friends think about you!
I needed someone to love me, seeing that you didn’t love me any more.
You’re a coward. Instead of making a play for me, you went crawling after the first slut who crossed your path.
She suddenly heard voices from a long way off; then came the sound of a bell followed by heavy footsteps. She opened her eyes and then recognised Adam’s voice. She stood up quickly.
Three of them rushed in the door at once.
‘You’re here?’ he asked in surprise. ‘You’ve got the stove going. That’s good. We got frozen on the bikes.’
‘You came on bikes?’
‘We’ve been on a trip.’
She had been preparing herself to meet him on his own; what was she to do now? What did these two know? How was she to behave towards them?
Hanuš said: ‘You look fantastic as always, Alena!’ But he grimaced as if he meant she looked even more ghastly than usual.
‘You too, old chum.’
She offered them tea, but they declined. They sat down at the table. Matěj opened his pack and pulled out smoked sausages, a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine. Adam tossed the sausages into a pan of hot water and fetched the glasses. For her too. Then he went out again and she could hear him lighting the stove in the next room. Where and how would they sleep? Where would he sleep, and where would she?
She joined them at the table. They invited her to help herself but then they chattered away as if she wasn’t there. They talked about a church that was apparently built by some ancestor of Matěj’s.
There was a time when people built churches, or at least chapels, and took part in processions on Corpus Christi, and had joy in what they did and enjoyed their work; nowadays they ran after tarts, and had to get drunk in order to enjoy themselves.
Hanuš looked overwhelmed. He said he had not had such a splendid day in three whole years. Or rather – he corrected himself, as he had indeed enjoyed many splendid days over there – a day so free of worry and nostalgia.
Matĕj asked him about what he had seen and done and Hanuš was only too pleased to walk for them along Oxford Street, sun himself by the sea in Sussex, and act as their guide at parties, dances and Beatles concerts; Adam sat smiling at the head of the table as if he was happy, as if nothing had happened and everything was all right. He didn’t even ask after the children, or why she had come. From time to time he would glance in her direction, but maybe he didn’t even see her. Then he stood up and fetched the plates and the sausages. As he walked by her carrying the pan of boiling water, he asked off-handedly: ‘The children are OK?’
‘You aren’t surprised to find me here?’
‘Oh, yes I am’. He turned his back on her and started fishing out the smoked sausages with a wooden spoon. ‘You don’t know if there’s some mustard here anywhere, do you?’
She rummaged out a jar of dried-up mustard from the back of the larder and handed it to him. He set a plate for her too and also poured her wine. It was blood red. Like the blood she had spilt.
Adam turned to Hanuš: ‘You were saying that they treat you as if you were a lunatic – I propose a toast to that! That you had the courage to act unreasonably, just as the spirit moved you.’
She swallowed a mouthful of wine with distaste. She had acted as the spirit moved her that time and look where it had got her. He praised his brother while castigating her for the same thing. That was him all over: he’d always find words to suit his purpose. Now he’d even discovered the spirit: ‘as the spirit moved’ – she’d never heard anything like that from him before: no doubt he’d caught it from her. She had persuaded him that if he climbed into bed with her he would be acting as the spirit moved him. And it was she who had taught him to drink wine; he hadn’t used to drink before. And he wouldn’t have dared eat smoked meat for supper for fear of a stomach upset.
He sat here listening to what Matěj and Hanuš had to say and was obviously enjoying himself. When he was at home and she or the children wanted to talk to him, he’d be in too much of a hurry and use his work as an excuse; he would even get up from the table before everyone had finished eating.
And on account of him she had let them take that life! To make it easier for him to forgive her. In the process she had almost bled to death and he didn’t even ask her anything, or even look at her.
Remorse gripped her. She was alone, forsaken by everyone. If she had had even an inkling that she would find them here, she would have stayed with the children. What if something had happened to them in the meantime?
They started singing. Matěj inflicted his Moravian drinking songs on everyone. She enjoyed singing, even with Matěj, and they would sing together when he visited them, but today she was unable to, even when Matěj begged her to join in.
She went off to the room where Robert and Sylva usually slept. She washed in cold water and climbed into a cold bed, closed her eyes and started to pray. O Lord, who mercifully gave me back the gift of faith, do not abandon me, stay
with me in my loneliness. And grant me patience and love, as well as the strength to be humble, let me forgive those who have done me wrong, and forgive me the awful thing I did, that I, a sinner, should have regarded it as the fruit of sin, that poor little innocent creature. And in Your mercy take its soul, that unsprouted seed, to You. And grant it peace and love.
Loud laughter came from the next room; she could make out Adam’s voice. She could concentrate on her prayer no longer. Then there was the sound of chairs being pushed back and doors banging. She could hear steps coming along the passage. Then the stairs creaked. The other two had obviously gone off to bed.
What two people could ever declare with certainty that they suited each other? As if something like that was pre-ordained at the outset and did not require constant effort. Nothing was pre-ordained: neither intimacy, nor love, nor trust; people had to go on looking for them and pray for them humbly. But that was something he was incapable of: he was proud, he would find it humiliating to make the effort to make friends with her, to go some way towards understanding her. Instead he’d sooner say: we are not made for each other. And what was he planning to do? To break up the home, abandon the children, leave them for good?
The house gradually subsided into silence, apart from a crackling in the stove; she ought to get up and tend to it.
Wouldn’t he even be coming in to say good night, and ask her how she was, at last?
Most likely he was waiting for her to come to him. He was incapable of admitting that he had done her wrong too; but she didn’t want to blame him for it; there was no point in worrying about the past, they should both be thinking about the future and looking for what might reconcile them again.
She listened to the silence of the house. The fire in the stove was already dying and the wind howled in the chimney. The window panes rattled and the creaking of dry branches could be heard from outside. She thought she heard a sudden quiet moan from the next room. Then a window creaked – maybe Adam was feeling unwell. He wasn’t used to drinking or eating late at night, and he had tired himself out on the bike beforehand. What an idea to go for a bike ride in the winter; most likely he was trying to prove to her, or to himself, how young and virile he still was.