by Ivan Klíma
‘How much is a lot?’
‘About three hours.’
‘During the entire stay?’
‘No, every day, of course!’
‘That’s good. One mustn’t neglect one’s talent.’
‘Agreed,’ she said, ‘– if one has talent. Unlike me.’
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘what about finding somewhere to sit down together, seeing that we haven’t seen each other for so long and you’ve been practising the piano so diligently?’
‘Like a pub, you mean?’
‘If you like.’
‘But we can just as easily go home.’
‘At home there’s always some disturbance or other – the phone or visitors, you know how it is.’
In the Small Quarter they found a garden restaurant. There were a few locals in the tap-room, but in the garden they found a free table beneath a red sunshade advertising Coca-Cola. In the shade of an old ash tree it seemed cool.
‘What will you have?’
‘Could I have a Coke?’
‘You can have whatever you fancy.’ His elder daughter was sitting opposite him, slightly red in the face. Like her mother, she didn’t tan, just went red. Anyway they had stopped recommending sunbathing just recently. Why had he really invited his daughter to the pub? Certainly not because the telephone would disturb them at home. Most likely because that was how he invited the other one out. He’d spent more time with her these past weeks than with his own daughter, whom he had neglected to such an extent that he had failed to notice how far she had wandered off. Now he was trying to make up for it. As if he could get back the time that he had wasted so rashly, as if there were any way of rectifying what had happened.
And wine?’ she asked.
‘You can have wine too.’
He ordered them each a glass of wine. Not even her arms were tanned; they were just freshly covered in lots of freckles. He pictured to himself a hypodermic syringe and a needle puncturing that skin, heaven knows what kind of needle. The very thought was nightmarish – surely it couldn’t happen to the little girl opposite, his little girl.
It was a fact that he seldom found the time to talk to his daughter, to ask about her worries, her pals, to hear some of the things she thought about, what her concerns were, whether the poem she had shown him was her only one or whether she wrote verse more frequently, and who she showed it to. Admittedly he saw her every evening at the dinner table and at the Sunday service, and was endlessly giving her orders, making sure she prayed, taking note of the marks on her school reports and the names of her teachers, studying literary and general history with her, and even telling her about those things that were either deliberately omitted from the curriculum or lied about. But she herself was so unknown to him that at the moment when she clearly needed him, he sat here as if with a strange young woman. He was incapable of intimacy even with his own daughter.
‘How are you planning to spend the rest of the holidays?’
‘I expect I’ll go and spend a week with Mum. And then Marek and I were thinking of going for a couple of days to protest against the Temelín nuclear power station.’ She sat rather stiffly and answered him like a model pupil or a model daughter.
‘I don’t know whether that’s a particularly good idea, whether Marek would be capable of protecting you if the need arose.’
‘You keep on staring at me as if I’ve committed a terrible sin, Daddy.’
‘It’s not a question of sin, just the fact you could completely ruin yourself!’ He knew about her failings, she didn’t know about his. Which of them was ruining themselves more? What was more excusable, or understandable, at least? And I’d also like to know if you intend to give it up!’ It was possible, or probable in fact, that if one deceived those around one, one influenced them even if they knew nothing about one’s deceit. Because people who deceive behave differently from those who have nothing to hide.
‘I wanted to tell you that it’s not Petr’s fault. He tried to talk me out of it.’
‘Why are you always talking about Petr and not about yourself?’
‘I don’t want you to do Petr an injustice.’
‘I don’t intend to. But you must realize that I’m more concerned about you than about Petr. But while we’re on the subject – am I supposed to be grateful to him for teaching you another bad habit?’
‘He didn’t start it. And he persuaded me not to inject anything. After I’d got hold of the hypo myself.’
‘Where did you get it?’
‘At school, of course.’
‘But you haven’t answered my question about whether you intend to give it up.’
‘I already have, thanks to Petr.’
‘Thanks to Petr, who in place of one bad habit taught you another?’ He was having trouble suppressing his anger.
‘Daddy, you don’t know anything about it. Petr isn’t wicked. On the contrary, he wants to help people. And he talked me out of speed because I might get hooked on it. Marijuana isn’t addictive. And anyway I’ve given that up too. Down at Grandma’s I only drank milk and ate vitamins.’
‘What made you start it at all?’
‘I just wanted to try it. I sold that sweater you gave me on account of it. Are you cross with me?’
‘On account of the sweater?’
‘It was a present from you.’
‘To hell with the sweater,’ he said, unable to control himself. ‘What made you go looking for the muck in school?’
‘Because almost everyone in our class had tried it.’
‘That’s an exaggeration.’
‘And they also drink, smoke cigarettes and marijuana, and all of them have a steady. Almost all the girls have slept with someone,’ she explained.
‘But surely you don’t have to do everything you see the others doing.’
‘Not everything, but at least something. Particularly when …’ She checked herself.
‘Particularly when your father is a pastor?’
‘Everybody looks at me as if I was made from something else.’
‘I regret that, but have you chosen the best way to prove you’re made from the same stuff?’
‘I chose the worst way – deliberately,’ she said, with a sudden display of wilfulness.
‘I have no doubt that it upset you the way the others looked at you, but I’m sure that they didn’t all look at you that way. I’m sure that you had friends in your class too. So that probably wasn’t the main reason.’
She raised the glass of wine and slowly sipped it. ‘But I told you not long ago – the reason.’
‘You did?’
‘Emptiness.’
‘Yes, I know. Emptiness at home with us.’
‘And in myself.’
‘I’m sorry. I’d hoped – I’d imagined that we were giving you something to fill that emptiness. More than some drug.’
‘That didn’t fill it either. You just forgot about it for a while.’
‘How?’
‘You really want to know?’
‘What do you forget about? The emptiness?’
‘Everything. Yourself. That you’re lonely, for instance. Speed becomes your friend. And I also felt stronger after it, that I could do all sorts of things.’
‘What, for instance?’
‘Be good at school. Be good to people. To love them. I had the feeling I’d be able to do anything I tried. Such as being able to carve a figure like you. Playing the piano the way you expect me to. And after grass, I had the feeling that time almost stood still, and that when time stands still you won’t ever die. And I had this incredible urge to laugh at everything. I found that beautiful: that I could laugh. And I thought up tunes and poems. Really, fantastic poems.’
‘Did you write them down?’
‘No, that seemed totally pointless. Why write? I was just happy I had thought them up.’
‘Happier than you’d feel normally?’
‘Differently. But without it I never have felt ver
y happy anyway.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
‘It’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault. It’s just the way I am.’
‘Evika, you know yourself that it won’t make you happy. And there’s an awful price to pay for that brief moment of happiness.’
‘I know, Daddy. I’ve already given it up. I really have.’
8
Letters
Dear Dan,
I’ve arrived safely with Magda and Marek. As usual, we are occupying the little bedroom at the top of the house under the roof. It has a beautiful view of the countryside with all three ponds clearly visible. Such splendid peace prevails everywhere. And then in the evening I was watching television and they showed the hospital where they had just admitted a little girl whose arm had been torn off and other people mutilated in the conflict and I began to be ashamed of indulging myself here, and of taking an extra month off, and it occurred to me that I could offer my services to them during this month. Apparently they have a shortage of doctors and medical staff of any kind. What do you think?
It would seem only right to me, but I was mentioning it to Mother and Magda overheard. She leapt on me and started to wail: Mummy, I’m not going to let you go anywhere. You’d get killed!
Magda is a good girl but she is incredibly lazy. When I ask her to pop to the shop for some yeast she looks at me as if I’d asked her to load a wagon with bricks. Today she slept in until ten thirty and was even astonished that I’d woken her. Yesterday a hornet flew into our room and she was so terrified she started to yell like a mad woman and crept under her bed. She stayed there until I had got rid of it. Marek, on the other hand, has mowed Mother’s entire garden and whitewashed her pantry. Apart from that he has his head stuck in that thick book about the universe. When I happened to open it, I discovered some indecent pictures cut out from somewhere. I know there are nude pictures all over the place: on the television and on calendars, but even so, I’m disappointed in Marek. I haven’t said anything to him, but perhaps you should have a talk with him and explain to him that it’s not a good way to look at women. I know he argues with you sometimes, but you’re the person he sets most store by. He’ll be coming home in a few days’ time as he wants to go with Eva to the protest camp near that nuclear power station. I don’t know whether it’s a sensible thing to do.
It’s so difficult, Dan, to know what to make of today’s world, to know what is right and what isn’t, what is good for people and what is harmful. Mother finds it very hard to walk and her rheumatism is worse. How’s your back? I left you some Brufen tablets – 400 mgs – in the medicine cupboard, just in case you get an attack.
Our young Pavel came and spent a day with us. As you know, he’s bought himself a shop in the village and run himself into debt. Now he’s worried and even opens up on Sundays. But what’s the point, he won’t sell more than people are able to buy from him. I also talked to him about Bosnia. His view is: They made their bed, now they’ve got to lie on it! I recalled where it says in the Scriptures: Judge not lest ye be judged and also: Harden not your hearts lest misfortune befall ye – but my little brother just said that he has enough troubles of his own and can see no reason why he should also bother his head about people shooting at each other somewhere in foreign parts. Sorry for lumbering you with this chatter, I’d better finish.
Dan, please don’t forget to water the house-plants – all of them, please! And if this dreadful heat wave continues (apparently you had 34 degrees in Prague), don’t forget to spray the garden.
We still have more than a fortnight of our stay here left, but I’m already missing you terribly. I’m not accustomed to such long holidays, and I was a bit worried when we were leaving because I sensed you were having a hard time. Should you need me, just call and I’ll come at once. You know you’re the person I hold dearest.
Best wishes from Mother and me.
With all my love, Hana
Dear Dad,
We’re having a super time. We go swimming and for walks and muck about with the girls from the village. Grandma baked some curd and poppy-seed buns and they were the bestest and biggest in the whole world. Mum also said only Grandma knows how to bake buns like that. We’ve got five little angora bunnies, they look like fluffy tennis balls with red eyes. We say our prayers every night and we’re all going to church on Sunday. I’m sending you a great big kiss, Love Magda.
P.S. Mum said she wrote and told you I’m lazy. Dad, I’m not lazy, I’m on holiday, that’s all. You write too, please. I know you don’t say bestest, but when I’m on holiday I can write what I like, can’t I?
July 94
Dear Dan,
This is the beginning of my last week at this spa where Sam is being treated for one of his many conditions. I’m being a good wife and putting up with the boredom here, accompanying my husband to treatments, taking walks in the colonnade, and talking to him about architecture and his health problems. When he takes his afternoon nap I slip away for a few moments to the little park in front of the hotel and yearn to be with you. I miss you so much, my darling, so very, very much!
You are a revelation for me, one that has grown from meeting to meeting. It has grown from nothing, by which I mean I never thought that someone like you could live among people. It would be bold of me to tell you who you are, because I don’t know you, but I fear that my boldness would only be the vanity of someone who never doubts her judgement. But I’ll try anyway. You’re kind, you’re good-hearted and you’re strong, even though you’re a real man. You’re generous. You don’t hurt people. You place life above success, knowing that the only real success is to lead a good life. You think that it is your faith that guides you, but I think you’re guided by your heart. I also think that you’re not one to criticize or reprimand people over little things, what you want chiefly is for them to be kind and live in love, like you yourself. I agree with that, because love is the thing my heart demands, what my soul cries out for. I could be surrounded by the best people in the world but if my heart was cold nothing would happen. My need for love comes from my fear that life has no meaning, that everything comes to an end, that nothing that I want to last ever lasts more than a few moments. It is a defence against the chilling universe. Sometimes when I’m falling asleep I can hear my heart suddenly start to thump wildly, because I abuse it even though I know it doesn’t deserve it, that it’s a good heart. You haven’t abused yours, my darling, you’ve only refused to hear it. You’ve convinced it that a good life consists of being loyal to an old vow instead of to your own heart.
I’m thinking of you. After so many years of my life, I’ve started to like myself. That’s a gift from you. I look at myself and tell myself I’m beautiful and desirable when someone like you can love me. When you can love me even when you try desperately not to. I can sense that, of course, my darling. I look at myself and know I’m a feeble, imperfect woman, that I’m impatient and selfish. Since you don’t have me for your entire life there’s no need for it to worry you.
But please keep me in your warm love for a few more days at least, no, a few more weeks, no, a few more months, please. Don’t forsake me, even when I’m awful sometimes.
Love, Bára
My dear Hana,
Your long letter really cheered me up. I was moved and even shamed by your determination to go and lend your help in those places where people are murdering each other, misled by false prophets and criminal leaders.
I don’t agree with your brother. However far away people may be, I think we must regard them as our neighbours, and therefore perceive their pain and suffering. The trouble is there are so many people. The people who suffer outnumber those who don’t, and the weight of suffering, if it was all added together, would make a crater deeper than the deepest pit of the ocean, so it is too heavy for us to bear. I expect the most we can do is help in those places that we can see and reach.
But Magda is right to say she wouldn’t let you go to a place where ther
e is shooting. I don’t think such places are made for children or their mothers – they should leave those places, not seek them out. And the children need you – even Eva, who I thought would be able to fend for herself by now. She does in fact, but in a way that terrifies me, and I firmly believe that your experience and wisdom will help us rescue her from that poisonous whirlpool before it drags her to the bottom.
Don’t worry about having a peaceful time and a rest, you deserve both. You’ve done enough for others in your life and had enough of your own suffering.
And don’t have any worries about me. I’m feeling fine and my work-load is somewhat less now, so I have a bit of time to do some reading and a spot of wood carving.
I’m thinking of you all and looking forward to seeing you.
Love, Dan
Hi Dad,
We’re having a fantastic time and it’s fantastic here, the people, I mean, because in other ways it’s like in a sci-fi film, those cooling towers that stare down at you from high above. All that concrete. There’s enough to build an entire enormous city. A dreadful concrete city, that is. We go to lectures and have discussions in Czech and English and our meals here are cooked by Dutch vegetarians. They travel every summer to protest against nuclear power stations wherever they are being built. Except that they’ve almost stopped building them anywhere else, only here. Yesterday we projected on to the towers portraits of the politicians who dreamt up this place. It was stupendous. Now we’re preparing a non-violent action. A blockade, in fact. Maybe we’ll tie ourselves together and lie down in front of the gates. We’re still discussing it. I like the fact that the people here are thinking about the future and are unwilling to let television pull the wool over their eyes. Eva has just gone off to the villages to persuade people to save energy and insulate their windows instead. I expect she won’t be back till this evening.
Are Mum and Magda back yet? If they are, give them our love. And love to you too. We’re both well.