The Ultimate Intimacy

by Ivan Klíma

  There, I’ve heaped a load of stuff on you again. Forgive me and don’t forsake me.

  Yours, Bára

  Dear Mrs Bára Musilová,

  I have thought a great deal about your last letter. It contains so much by way of feeling, pain, expectation and makes so many demands on life. I have been puzzling over what impels you to shower such praise on me, even though you do not know me at all. It struck me that you are in great need of something – or, more likely, someone – to believe in. Something good. Someone good. And from what you wrote about your husband I get the impression that you dream about a perfect man. But no man is perfect. People aren’t perfect, only He is perfect. So you are always going to be disappointed, because only Jesus is incapable of disappointing us: he is the embodiment of love and understanding. The most that any of us can do is to seek in Him an example for our lives. You write: Do not forsake me! This is a plea that we address precisely to him. He alone is able never to forsake us because his love and his kindness are not restricted by time. The rest of us are here for just a short time, the length of a dream, and we do not know the moment when that dream will end.

  We do not want to betray or forsake others. I know that I never want to forsake my wife as long as I live. I don’t want to forsake any of the people who are near to me or who trust me. In that sense I do not wish to forsake you either. But what can I promise you? And so I simply beg you not to seek God in people, apart from that of God which is in each of us. And try to find Him. He will never disappoint or forsake you.

  I sense in you a great disquiet. I fear that it might send you hurtling off in a direction you don’t want to go. One ought to strive to discern the consequences of one’s actions.

  I wish you success in your search for inner peace.

  Yours, Daniel Vedrà

  Dear Reverend,

  What a pagan I am that I never make it to church. And then the rheumatism has been troubling me just lately and I’m glad of a rest on Sunday. The gardens permitting, that is. And while I’m on the subject of the gardens, you know I’m not one to complain, but that young Koubek fellow, Petr, is going down in my estimation all the time. Two days last week he failed to turn up, and the next day he walked in bold as brass with no thought of excusing himself or anything. When he took his pay, and Reverend I don’t pay badly, not when I think how much I had to slog every week when I was his age and what I’m giving him, he plays the lordship and sneers that it’s not enough to buy a rope to hang himself. His very words. And this week he hasn’t shown up at all and I’ve had to drive the tractor myself or ask Marie, and she’s supposed to be in charge of the glass houses. So I’d be very glad if you’d let me know if I’m to count on him still or if I’m to find a replacement. I’m sorry to be the bringer of bad news.

  Wishing you the best of health,

  Yours truly, Břetislav Houdek

  Chapter Four

  1

  Bára Musilová arrives as they agreed. She is only a few minutes late. ‘You’re not cross with me for keeping you waiting?’ she apologizes breathlessly.

  ‘But I’m at home.’

  ‘I hate keeping people waiting.’

  She is wearing the same black skirt as last time. And the ribbon that ties her hair is black as well. Her white blouse is open at the neck. It strikes him that as always there is something provocative in her appearance. Not so much in the way she dresses as in the way she moves, or rather in the way she looks at him. Daniel feels uneasy. ‘Would you like a coffee?’

  ‘I’d like a small glass of red wine if you have any, and a drop of water. It was stifling in the bus. But I don’t know – maybe I’m holding you up?’

  He brings wine and mineral water and two glasses for her.

  ‘Won’t you have a glass with me?’

  ‘I’m not accustomed to at this time of day.’

  ‘Nor am I. Nor am I accustomed to sitting in a manse – that’s why I asked you for the wine.’

  ‘That’s perfectly all right. I’m accustomed to sitting in a manse.’

  ‘But not with me.’

  He gets up and goes to fetch another glass. He also brings a small plate of savoury biscuits and slices some salami to go with them.

  ‘You’re going to feed me too? You mustn’t waste any time. I don’t want to lose even one second of the time I can be with you.’ But she reaches impatiently for the glass. ‘So here’s to our meeting and a successful afternoon. Is it all right to drink to such banal things? Here at the manse, I mean?’

  He clinks glasses with her.

  ‘On the journey here, all sorts of things occurred to me that I might ask you, though I don’t think any of my questions are particularly original. I expect everyone asks you the same things.’

  ‘I don’t know what you have in mind.’

  ‘Doubt about God’s existence, for instance.’

  ‘People don’t usually ask. Either they have no doubts, or, more likely, if they do, they’re ashamed to admit them to the minister.’

  ‘And you personally, do you have doubts?’ She stares fixedly at him. As if his reply really mattered to her. It occurs to him that her ancestors on her mother’s side might well have been in that country that Jesus walked in, that they might have actually set eyes on Him and been struck with wonder by His deeds but turned away from Him when He died such a shameful death.

  ‘I find it hard to imagine someone who wouldn’t doubt from time to time.’

  ‘I’m glad you replied that way. I was afraid you never doubted. I wanted to ask: Are you able to imagine the universe?’

  That was not a question he had ever had to answer before. ‘No, I’m not. My son is interested in astronomy. It’s a pity he’s not here; he might be able to give you a better answer.’

  ‘It’s just as well he’s not here; it’s your answer I’m interested in. Are you unable to imagine the universe because it’s too big?’

  ‘Partly.’

  ‘How could God, who created all that, have assumed the form of a Jewish infant?’

  ‘Jewish because God was fulfilling the promise made to Abraham. All the tribes of the Earth shall bless themselves in you.’

  ‘No, you haven’t understood me. I mean, how is it that someone who had the strength to create the universe could suddenly change into a human baby?’

  ‘But God created with the Word. He didn’t knock it together with his bare hands.’

  ‘What does “created it with the Word” mean?’

  ‘Let’s call it “a command”, then.’

  ‘Like on a computer?’

  ‘It’s best not to compare God with anything. And I’d definitely not compare him to a computer.’

  She sighs. ‘I still don’t understand. To create the universe and time and change himself into a baby that grows and ages until one day, in purely human time, some Roman bureaucrat has him executed. How does that differ from some Red Indian or Hindu myths?’

  ‘I don’t reject myths. They are rungs to understanding.’

  ‘To understanding what?’

  ‘To understanding existence. The beginning and the end.’

  ‘And that myth of yours, is that just “a rung” too?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘You’re very conciliatory. Or you’re a doubter yourself.’

  ‘No, a sinner.’ He pours her more wine.

  ‘You wrote to me that Jesus will not disappoint or forsake me. How can you tell? After all, he promised he would return during the lifetimes of those who were with him and lead them off to the Kingdom of Heaven. I’ve got that right, haven’t I? And what can be worse than not to come when you promise to? And he’s not given any news about himself since then, has he?’

  ‘That expectation was premature. People took too literally one single remark of His. Times were different. People believed in miracles; they were expecting the end of the world. He, and the entire impact He had, is a mystery and will remain so. You can either accept it or reject it. It’s a question
of faith, the belief that what happened, happened as God’s will to free mankind from the eternal law of birth and death. Or, to put it in today’s language, God decided that man had reached the stage at which it was necessary to remove him from the effect of that law.’

  ‘Why man, in particular?’

  ‘Because man is made in His image. That is how he differs from all other creatures.’

  ‘But you just have to believe all that. I expect you’re happy,’ she says, ‘happy that you have something you can believe in, something that lasts for ever and ever, whereas for me everything is coming to an end when it’s barely started and soon will end for good. But before it does, I’d still like to experience something nice. No, that’s not the right word – something perfect. But I know that I’m not entitled to it, that I’ve lost my entitlement.’

  ‘Why? Life does not end until the last breath – up till then everything is open.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Such as grace and the love of Jesus.’

  ‘Yes, we mentioned that. But what about the human sort?’

  ‘There should be that too.’

  ‘That was nice to hear. Thank you. And here you are sitting with me and listening to my talk.’ She drinks up her wine and rises. Before leaving she takes another look around the room. ‘You have some beautiful carvings here – I noticed them last time. Are they saints of some kind?’

  ‘We don’t venerate saints. No, I just do a bit of carving for fun sometimes.’

  ‘You’re a woodcarver as well?’

  ‘No. My grandfather used to work with wood, though. He was a violin-maker. Before he died I used to go to his workshop sometimes and watch him working.’

  ‘The faces on those two women are similar. As a matter of fact, they look more like young girls than grown-up women.’

  ‘My first wife died before she reached twenty-five.’

  ‘And those figures – they’re supposed to be her?’

  ‘You could put it that way.’

  ‘You must have loved her a lot, then?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Forgive me for asking you like that. I didn’t know your wife had died.’

  He nodded. What she didn’t know about him was a great deal more than she did know.

  ‘Do you think you’ll ever be capable of loving that much again?’

  ‘But I remarried.’

  ‘And do you carve figures of your second wife?’

  He says nothing. This person makes him uneasy.

  ‘Would you have to be deeply in love in order to carve the figure of another woman?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ and it strikes him that it is fortunate she doesn’t know about his latest carving. ‘I don’t know whether it has anything to do with love.’

  ‘But surely all works of art have something to do with love.’

  ‘I expect you’d know more about that than I.’

  ‘But you know it too, don’t you? In fact, you haven’t answered my question. What I wanted to know was if it was possible, after losing someone you love a great deal, to experience a similar thing again or something even more powerful.’

  ‘I really have no answer to that. I don’t think love can be ranked, and I actually find the idea of ranking people silly. But there are bound to be people more qualified than I am – you’d better ask them.’

  ‘And you wouldn’t manage to?’

  ‘Why does it interest you?’

  ‘Maybe I’d like to know whether you’d be capable of loving me.’ She makes a short laugh. ‘What will you say now? Don’t say that we are each of us married, just imagine for a moment that neither of us are.’

  She pours herself some wine. ‘Now you’re cross and remaining silent. Remaining silent means you don’t want to say “No” out loud.’

  ‘Remaining silent means simply remaining silent,’ he explains.

  She quickly puts her cigarettes and lighter away in her handbag. ‘Do you think we’ll see each other again? I don’t mean in church, but like this.’ She stands opposite him, waiting. ‘You are remaining silent. Does remaining silent always mean remaining silent with you?’

  2

  Diary excerpts

  Mrs Straková from Kamenice came to Prague and paid us a visit. I hadn’t seen her for years but she hasn’t changed all that much. It always gives me pleasure when someone turns up from those parts. From those parts and from those days, someone who still remembers Jitka.

  I enquired how things were with the congregation. She told me that fewer and fewer people come to church on Sundays. No one’s able to give fine sermons like yours any more, she said, flattering me. Then she complained about the decline in moral standards. They had had three divorces in Kamenice in the past year. The men had lost their senses and the women were taking leave of theirs, the young people only thought about money and having fun. Mrs Straková laid the blame mostly at the door of television. I couldn’t get to sleep the other night, she said, so I switched on the box, and Reverend, there were women running around naked. It’s worse than that Sodom you used to preach to us about and that’s a fact.

  My visitor brought me a bag of dried apples and home-made buns. When she left, it struck me that the world she had come from, and where I too had lived for a time, was dying. I felt a twinge of nostalgia for it, in spite of its association for me with such dreadful times.

  Shortly afterwards the phone rang. It was very late already, but I wasn’t asleep as I was writing my sermon. Some woman’s voice, it was a mezzo-soprano, called me by my Christian name and said: I love you. The voice struck me as somehow familiar and yet unknown. Once – it was precisely in those Kamenice days – someone rang me and abused me, calling me a creeping Jesus, a hooligan and – surprisingly enough – a Judas. But that abusive call surprised me less than this last one.

  It can happen that someone in the middle of the night, just for their amusement, rings an unknown number and blurts something out. But that woman knew my Christian name. She could have found the number in the phone book, of course, or in the list in the church almanac.

  I had a visit last week from Mrs Ivana Pokorná of our congregation. She complained about the fact that there was a boy in her daughter’s class who had shot his father. When I expressed astonishment that the lad was at liberty, she explained to me that he had committed the murder earlier, when he was under fifteen, and so he had escaped prosecution. He had been placed in a diagnostic institution but still attended school. Worst of all, she told me, the students in his class regarded him as a hero. Even the teachers. Why had he done it? His father used to beat him, she said, and had treated his mother brutally, and he might have had a mistress. So what was wrong with the son bumping him off?

  I cited that case at the last meeting of the youth group as an example of moral cynicism. Ivana’s daughter confirmed that the lad had no qualms of conscience. He declares that if he hadn’t been successful that time he would have happily tried again.

  We went on to talk at length about his action. Was it perversion, moral indifference or depravity, or was there perhaps another motive? How was it possible that a lad could kill his father and not even have qualms of conscience? I was surprised to find that the young people’s opinions were much less unequivocal than I had expected. They explained that the son had obviously found his father’s behaviour so despicable that he felt entitled to intervene. There’s so much filth in the world and no justice, are you supposed to just look on all the time? Alois asked.

  I conceded that parents often made mistakes as well. None the less one ought not forget that one of the fundamental principles on which society was founded reads: Honour your father and your mother, and that the Bible actually states: ‘Anyone who curses his father or mother must be put to death.’ (Exodus 21: 17)

  Petr maintained that most criminals didn’t feel guilty. On the contrary they regarded everyone around them as bad for not living up to their expectations. All of you, he said, turning to us, are too concerned about
conscience and sin, but people don’t give a toss about all that, apart from when someone steals something from them.

  I agreed with him that our judgements of others are often categorical, while we tend to display much more indulgence when it comes to judging ourselves. Even so, murder was something that could never be condoned.

  But that evening the thought occurred to me that the lad’s action might actually have been prompted by desperation and a wounded or offended sense of justice. A wise son brings joy to his father, it says in Proverbs, but a foolish son brings grief to his mother. But what damage do an adulterous father or adulterous mother cause their son? And who nowadays will inform the son of a three-thousand-year-old law that says: Anyone who curses his father or mother deserves death?

  The cynicism, hypocrisy and deceit that pervade the adult world burst with indignation over the cynicism of the children which they themselves helped bring into the world.

  After service on Sunday I had a word with Marika. (She didn’t bring her siblings, but she is a regular attender. I don’t know whether she follows the sermon but as soon as she hears the harmonium she enters into the singing heart and soul.) She loves her older brother and is convinced he’s innocent. He fell victim to the gajos’ revenge. When I asked her what he had done, she said: nothing. They locked him up over a fight in the pub, although he hadn’t even been in the pub the night the fight broke out. It strikes me as unlikely but I don’t think she’s lying; she just believes in her brother’s innocence. I am alarmed that the concept of what is just or even moral is being dangerously transformed. I get the same feeling when I think about the Soukups. He’s determined to get divorced. He has fallen in love with a woman in the firm where he works. He has rejected the wife who loves him and serves him body and soul. He wants to deprive her of her children and she, in her despair, is incapable of defending herself. None the less, Brother Soukup considers himself a good Christian. He could have deceived his wife but he chose not to. He could have gone on living a life without love, but instead he gives preference to a life of love. How Christian it all is, and how weak and hypocritical at the same time.