The Ultimate Intimacy

by Ivan Klíma

  Vondra, for his part, talks about New York and Boston where he recently spent a whole month. He tells them about the musical, Cats giving a passable rendition of Andrew Lloyd Webber’s feline hit about the moon, before relating with considerable enthusiasm a meeting of the Krishna Consciousness Society. He learnt that in the next life, the sort of body people will receive will depend on the way they have lived in their previous incarnation. They could become demi-gods of which there are 33 million, or they could be born as a cat or as a pig and consume their own excrement. Our body is apparently like a bubble that forms on the surface of the water. In a while it bursts and is never seen again. Our soul simply moves from one bubble to another and we stupidly believe it to be the source of our happiness.

  ‘What is the source of happiness, then?’ Ljuba wants to know. She, no doubt, dreams of it like all women.

  ‘Coalescence,’ Vondra explains. ‘Coalescence with Krishna. He’s the Supreme Personality of Godhead, the incarnation of absolute truth.’

  ‘Coalescence doesn’t appeal to me,’ Ljuba says.

  Vondra assures her that she won’t coalesce, but will definitely turn into some goddess when she dies. A goddess of love and beauty, naturally.

  Samuel finds this sort of talk repellent. Young people nowadays have a tendency to make light of things beyond their comprehension, of anything they can’t buy or misappropriate in some way.

  But Vondra is winding up the topic anyway. ‘If you’re interested,’ he turns once more to Ljuba, ‘the Krishna people are supposed to be here in our country too. They could explain it to you much better than me.’ And he turns to a subject he knows more about. With a certain disdain he talks about the work of the avant-garde, those intellectual Bolsheviks who fled to the States from Europe in the thirties and changed the face of most American city centres (Vondra actually uses the word ‘downtowns’), and New York in particular. In his view, it was a baleful influence and transformed every major American city into one big cemetery with monumental concrete tombs poking up out of them. No, tombs is not the right word, because a tomb tends to be decorated at least, and have a dove or an angel, whereas these are more like gigantic gravestones: in place of carved letters, windows that don’t open; in place of angels, television aerials.

  One of the reasons why he is saying all this is to impress Ljuba, of course, but it is mainly to pique Samuel. Vondra knows he was a supporter of the avant-garde and that he strove, even in the worst times, to preserve and defend something of their principles.

  Samuel could wipe the floor with the young know-all. He could draw his attention to dozens of buildings around the world where the avant-garde proved its prowess, but he doesn’t feel like arguing, he doesn’t feel like talking at all, in fact. He can feel one of his depressions coming on, and he is beginning to get a headache. He ought to take a tablet, but they are in his bag and his bag is behind him in the boot. He starts to drive faster, not because he is in a hurry, but more out of edginess or a desire to leave behind all that talk, that clichéd meandering from Broadway musical to transmigration of souls, and from incarnation to the Bauhaus.

  It is possible to chatter away about all and sundry in the course of a single car journey, express a view on every topic, throw cold water on everything and feel high and mighty. In reality it’s all much more complicated and mysterious, both life and death. How many times has he found himself in a place he has never visited before in his life and yet has known precisely what he is going to see! He was walking along a street towards the Herengracht in Amsterdam and all of a sudden he realized that if he were to cross the street and pass through the entrance of one of the buildings he would find a flea market there. How could he have known this, seeing this was his first visit to Amsterdam and nobody had ever spoken to him about a hidden flea market? Why was he born on the first of September like Dietzenhofer? In fact, the first time he came across his portrait in some book and pictured the face without the period wig with its artificial curls, he had marvelled at his resemblance to him. And when he first met Bára, her face seemed ominously familiar. He just didn’t know – and only on that point was his prescience or memory hazy – whether it was a good or a bad omen.

  As he approaches Jihlava, he recalls how at one time – as if in some other life – he used to hitch-hike to Bratislava to visit his first wife. Scarcely anyone would have imagined a motorway in those days, just as no one would have dreamt that the Republic would break up and Bratislava would be a foreign city. There were fewer cars then, of course, but they used to stop and he would often reach Bratislava more quickly than by train. He remembers making love all those years ago, the passionate embraces and then the sudden despair when he discovered he was no longer loved, no longer desired. And he lost his first daughter Linda before really getting to know her. Not long ago, about six months in fact, she called to see him in Prague. Not just a stranger, but actually a foreigner now. He hardly recognized her at first, but then he realized she had become more like him. Strange. And she called him otecko, Dad, in Slovak. That was strange too. He had not seen his second daughter Lida for a number of years and had met her husband only twice, maybe three times. They don’t live in Prague. Two of his families have broken up and he didn’t have the time, or the inclination maybe, to hold on to the children. And his third and last family? It is only self-deception, force of habit or lack of courage not to declare broken something that wrecked itself a long time ago. Nothing in life lasts. Life itself only lasts a moment – a bubble on the water – and its’ curious how even for that moment one is incapable of maintaining some deeper feeling, loyalty or devotion. Maybe this depressing state of affairs is also affected by the general state of things. After all, there have been so many turbulent changes in the life of this country that spreads out each side of the motorway. The rich became poor and the poor rich, the powerful lost their power and sometimes their lives, and others took their place. Splendid old buildings fell into rack and ruin and ugly new ones were built. Everything took place at such a frenzied pace, in a mad dance, or a dance of madmen. One either joined in or fell out of the circle and straight into the abyss at whose brink the dance was held.

  He didn’t join in. He merely adjusted to it slightly, as a result of which he was able to create works that received recognition, and definitely much greater recognition than he receives now that young vultures are circling around devoid of scruples and intent on only one thing: making a fast buck. They will all end up in the next life as wild pigs, or tigers, more likely. A rather ludicrous and naive thought. Worse still, he is touching sixty. He is not as flexible as he used to be and he realizes he can’t take the pace for much longer.

  They skirt Velké Mezifícî. He once had a date here with his first wife, Katarina. They slept together in a little hotel on the square. Accommodation was so ludicrously cheap in those days, as was the price of a meal, although his salary had been ludicrously small too. But everything lay ahead of him then: all the projects, all the important buildings, the many journeys, the foreign countries, the interesting encounters, conferences, lectures, articles, receptions, recognition and conflict, not to mention two divorces, two more marriages and parenthood – he never seemed to find much time for the children, though he wasn’t really such a bad father. Suddenly he is seized by an unexpected regret for times gone by, for his past life and even the old order of things which, while he didn’t like it and didn’t think it was right, he had grown accustomed to, learning to manoeuvre and even excel in it; regret for his youth and his life as it gradually draws to its close. What is left for him? Scrabbling for contracts and offering bribes, because money means more than his name, his skills or his experience.

  Besides, every new contract takes him nearer to the last one he’ll ever receive, and to his own end. What sort of life has he had, really? What would his next rebirth be like, if something of the sort could happen in the mysterious order of life?

  Out of the blue, the young vulture Vondra asks what sort of commi
ssion they should offer. Vondra thinks at least 13 per cent of the price. This strikes Samuel as excessive; it’s shameless to demand several hundred thousand for nothing and therefore stupid and immoral to offer so much. But Vondra believes that everyone will offer 10 per cent and if they want to win it they will have to be generous. Generously immoral, he adds, and makes Ljuba laugh.

  But no one will be offering a design like ours, Samuel points out. Vondra agrees, but the ones who will be taking the decision don’t care about the quality of the design, only about their commission. That’s the way it usually goes, and if things turn out differently, then so much the better.

  They reach the Hotel Kontinental almost an hour before they are due to meet with the chairman of the sports club that is investing in the complex. Samuel takes leave of his travelling companions for a short while. The two of them go off together. They each have their own rooms but will most likely sleep together. A tiger and a pussy cat. He prefers not to think about such matters any more. He and Bára hardly ever make love now, and he fears other women because of AIDS and potentially emotional entanglements.

  In his room, which is fairly luxurious, he removes the plans from his overnight case and looks them over once more to assure himself that they are original and interesting. The suspended cable construction of the roof might seem unnecessary for a small complex, but it creates a sense of vastness, of loftiness and originality. People yearn for originality. And even though it is no longer possible to come up with anything unique, there is no harm in a little surprise. He folds up the plans again. The time drags. There is still time for him to shower and change. He could even stretch out for a while.

  There is a telephone on the bedside table. He ought to call home as he always used to do whenever he went on a trip, and Bára would take it as an expression of love and concern. Now, though, she would think he was checking up on her and regard it as an expression of his jealousy and lack of trust. That’s if she is at home and answers the telephone. Except that she’s not at home at all, or if she is, she’s not on her own; the phone won’t give him any clue to the identity of her visitor anyway. She could be sitting on her lover’s knee and begging Samuel down the phone to come home as soon as he can because she misses him so, and is afraid to be home on her own. Even a very bad actress can manage that. He suppresses an urge to get in the car and drive off home. Instead he takes a tablet of Imigran for his headache and another red capsule of Prothiaden. Then he goes down to the lobby and orders a glass of mineral water, since he can’t mix the pills with alcohol, and with a sense of total desolation he awaits the arrival of those he is to bargain with, as well as those he is to bribe.

  5

  Daniel noticed that Eva was downcast rather than elated when she returned from her school-leavers’ party. He felt like doing something to raise his eldest child’s spirits. ‘What would you say,’ it occurred to him, ‘if we were to go off on a trip somewhere together, now that you are an adult?’

  ‘Just the two of us?’

  ‘Just the two of us for once – that’s if you could put up with my company.’

  ‘We’ve never done anything like that before.’

  ‘Maybe when you were very small. We might have been left on our own, but you wouldn’t remember that.’

  ‘And where would we go?’

  ‘I was thinking maybe about the Prachov Rocks. It’s beautiful there.’

  ‘You and Mummy used to go climbing there, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes. In fact something happened there that concerns you.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Mummy and I were camping there exactly nine months before you were born.’

  ‘I see. Do you think you’d still find the spot?’

  ‘Definitely, although I’ve not been there since.’

  ‘But I couldn’t manage to climb the rocks’

  ‘We won’t climb them. With my back I wouldn’t go climbing anyway.’

  Daniel found the spot easily – on a raised level area away from the Emperor’s Passages and the other tourist trails. Several birch trees and two tall bushy larches pointed skywards, the colour of the leaves and grass were both soothing and hopefully spring-like. In the middle of a patch of sand were the traces of an old camp-fire. And on all sides there was a view of the many rock pillars, sheer rock faces and rock passages.

  ‘Did you make a fire here?’

  ‘I think so, but I expect there have been lots of other camp-fires here since.’

  ‘Did Mummy enjoy rock climbing?’

  ‘We both did. There was a good crowd of us. We even went abroad together, to Yugoslavia. It was still one country then and it was easier to get there than to the Alps. We climbed Bobotuv Kuk and several other rocks on Durmitor. I got stuck in a chimney there and I suddenly had the feeling I couldn’t go up or down.’

  ‘What did you do? Did you pray?’

  ‘No, I certainly didn’t. I was never one to believe that the Lord is there to help us out of sticky spots. Mummy was with me, or rather below me, and that helped me to keep my calm. In the end I climbed out like everyone else.’

  ‘Was Mummy a good climber?’

  ‘We all had to be, or we would never have reached the top together. Your Mummy had a very special affinity for the mountains. She used to say that rocks were ancient giants turned to stone who definitely lived once upon a time.’

  ‘Did you try to talk her out of it?’

  ‘Why should I have? Maybe she was right. Maybe they’re still alive, but we are just unaware of their life because it takes place in a different dimension of time.’

  ‘Daddy, you’d never say that in a sermon.’

  ‘I suppose not,’ he conceded. ‘But it’s a mistake.’ Then he showed her some of the nearby rocks that he had either climbed or attempted to climb in vain, as well as some of the rocks her mother had scaled.

  ‘I wouldn’t manage that; Mummy must have been good.’ Then she added, ‘It seems odd to me to be talking about her as my mum, seeing that I never saw her, that I don’t recall seeing her.’

  ‘But she can see you all the time.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘Don’t you?’

  ‘I just can’t imagine it: I can’t imagine her seeing me without me seeing her.’

  ‘I expect it’s a different kind of seeing. It’s beyond our imagination. But she’s bound to be pleased with you.’

  He looked towards one of the larches where the little blue tent stood. The blue had faded with time, the warmth had long ago evaporated from it and the canvas had gradually turned to tatters, like his memories. A lump came to his throat.

  ‘No,’ Eva blurted out, ‘she can’t be pleased if she sees everything. She’s most likely weeping.’

  ‘What makes you say such things?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’ Eva resembled her mother in hair colour, figure and facial features. If he squinted slightly he could actually imagine it was his first wife standing there, untouched by time, that she had vaulted the abyss of years and just stepped out of the tent and was listening to the calm of the rocks. He ought to ask her what her ‘Oh, nothing’ concealed but he was strangely shy of his daughter.

  ‘Shall I unpack the food?’ she asked.

  ‘OK.’

  They sat down on a sun-warmed boulder and ate their bread.

  ‘How did you and Mummy first meet?’ she asked.

  ‘It wasn’t here. But it was on a climbing holiday. In the Tatras. I was already a vicar in Kamenice then. They used to call me “the climbing clergyman”. Mummy was still studying at the Conservatoire. I found her very attractive.’

  ‘But you waited a long time before you married.’

  ‘We scarcely had time to see each other. She was studying in Prague and I was out in the Moravian Highlands. We used to meet a couple of times a month. We used to hitch-hike to get to see each other. We were poor.’

  ‘If you’d got married, though, you could have been together earlier.’
r />   ‘But Mummy had to finish her studies. But we spent longer together in the summer. When we first met, Mummy was just a bit older than you are now. She didn’t say much, she sang beautifully, was a marvellous pianist and was nearly always smiling. With her eyes more than with her lips.’

  ‘Maybe she only smiled like that at you.’

  ‘We were in love,’ he said, ‘from the moment we met. How about you,’ it occurred to him, ‘have you fallen in love yet?’

  ‘You’re not serious, Daddy?’

  ‘Yes I am. It’s occurred to me on several occasions, but I’ve not wanted to ask.’

  ‘I’ve fallen in love lots of times.’

  ‘Lots?’

  ‘But they didn’t know about it. Those boys.’

  ‘Not one of them knew about it?’

  ‘Maybe one of them. Or two.’

  ‘And where were they from?’

  ‘From my class, some of them, or I knew them from St Saviour’s.

  And I went to the Pentecostals a couple of times.’

  ‘You didn’t tell me.’

  ‘I was afraid you’d be cross. Petr and I went to their youth meeting the other day.’

  ‘Petr went?’

  ‘He was awfully interested in them, so I took him. He was really mad about them. He told them about a feeling he had had of something coming down on him, that he couldn’t describe. It was at night. He woke up and saw a strange light coming straight at him. He couldn’t explain it, and then he realized that it could be the Holy Ghost.’

  ‘An experience like that and he didn’t even mention it to me.’