by Ivan Klíma
It’s true that I hesitated before I bought Marek the telescope. Not because it was expensive, but because it was a virtual endorsement of the doubts and comments that he tries to provoke me with. Then I said to myself that I would buy it for that very reason. We all live in doubt about the beginning and the end, and when he realizes this he won’t need to test the firmness of my faith any more.
When I was carrying the telescope out of the shop I remembered Dad taking me to the planetarium. It was after his return from prison, and he talked to me about the boundlessness of the universe and how time defied the imagination. I wasn’t particularly impressed by the planetarium, though; everything there was artificial. But that evening the sky happened to be clear and I went out and spent a long time, possibly an hour, gazing up at the stars. First of all I tried to identify the main constellations at least, but then I gradually became dizzy as I imagined the distances and the enormous quantity of burning matter. The idea of infinity excited me but also unsettled me. In fact I started to flee from it as I did from the gloomy notion of death which equally defied the imagination. Faith was a good way of escaping it, and still is. Except that there is no way one can entirely evade a reality that impinges all the time. After all, God is just as unimaginable as infinity.
For the first time in years I am reading Augustine, whom I used to revere for his intuition when I was a student and also because he considered love to be the basis of Christ’s teaching. Now I find that, like Plato, he lacks sufficient knowledge of the world and nature to substantiate his views. Thus he reached most of his conclusions by deduction on the basis of assumptions which, without any evidence, he proclaimed to be beyond doubt. His explanation for God’s existence outside of time and space was that in time and space one could not discover supreme bliss and perfection. It is possible to displace everything great and beautiful from time and space, but not oneself or one’s imagination.
These days we don’t even have to worry about such justifications of God. I noticed the following sign on a wall not far from Tyl Square.
Posthumous experiences – The A.D.E.
I felt like adding: God on display 3 p.m.–5 p.m., Wednesdays and Fridays.
Hana no longer goes to the hospital and has started to take charge of all the necessary arrangements for setting up a centre in our manse. There is a great deal to see to. It crossed my mind to commission Bára to design the structural alterations to the house. I like the idea of our undertaking a joint project. But she refused, saying we shouldn’t tempt fate.
Hana is happy. She wants to install a potter’s wheel and build a ceramics kiln, and also fit out a tailoring workshop. The board of Diakonia promised me they would get someone to undertake the structural plan gratis or at a very low cost. We have also given thought to people in the neighbourhood that we might employ at the centre. I thought of Máýa: she could care for handicapped children; the work could give her some satisfaction seeing that her husband has deprived her of her own children – for the time being, at least For her part, Hana suggested Marika. She sings beautifully and plays the guitar. I wasn’t too sure whether Marika would be a suitable person to work with children. She struck me as being too much of a daydreamer. (Alois likes Marika, although ‘likes’ is probably an inadequate description of their relationship.) However I said we could give her a try. Talking about the Diakonia fills me with an almost unexpected sense of relief. It’s a bit like a shipwrecked sailor watching the arrival of a ship that might rescue him.
What’s far more important though – to continue with my banal simile – is whether the people on the ship catch sight of the shipwrecked sailor.
I see Bára very seldom now. Her husband doesn’t feel fit and assigns her most of his office duties. And he demands that she devote her remaining time to him. She says he often speaks about life losing meaning for him. He also offers her a divorce or his own death, both of which would save her work, he maintains.
Whenever Bára and I meet, she seems to be in a hurry. At the same time she looks at me with love and I have the feeling that her every movement is a plea for me to help her. Help her in what way? To find meaning in our life here on earth. She came full of doubt and misgivings about Jesus’s divinity. She came to me to dispel her misgivings. But I failed. Instead of leading her towards the love of Jesus, I started to embrace her. I started to talk to her about my own love, which even lacks the fullness and purity that can be achieved by imperfect human love.
Except it is more likely that Bára came because she was seeking human love, not on account of her doubts about God. That was just a pretext.
You prove your love by your deeds. By being helpful and self-sacrificing, by standing by your loved ones when they need you. Love can also be defined negatively: not harming, not abandoning, not lying and not betraying.
But how can that be applied in the case of two women who both regard you as their own? What then remains but a desperate effort to fulfil at least a few promises and resolutions; you then pay for it with further betrayals, lies and deceptions. It occurred to me that if I took a decision, irrespective of what it was, I would find relief. I could continue with my work without feeling that I’ve lost the right to proclaim the Bible’s message. But then I realized that I couldn’t continue anyway, as I lack sufficient faith!
Regarding the trip to Spain, Bára says her husband told her she could go to hell as far as he was concerned, but that Saša didn’t deserve anything of the sort and he therefore opposed it. So they won’t go anywhere.
I found it odd that she should accept someone else’s decision like that without demur.
‘And what if he did something to himself while I’m there?’ she asked. Then, apropos of nothing, she said: ‘OK, I’ll start to learn Spanish.’
I’d like in some way to define my state of mind, or more accurately, the state of my feelings.
Formerly I lived more calmly. I was not particularly happy but I definitely wasn’t unhappy. I experienced neither moments of ecstasy nor of hopelessness. I did lots of useful and beneficial things and even had time for my hobbies.
Now there are times when I seem incapable of doing anything at all, unable to complete anything. And then all of a sudden I fall into some kind of trance and I sit down at the piano and improvise tunes that seem to me worth noting down, but mostly I don’t bother because it seems to me more important to create them than to preserve them. Likewise, the carvings I do are different: more complex and dynamic. These days I usually portray a couple: a woman and child – as if previously I tried to capture a state whereas now it is a relationship, the tension between two human beings, whether mutual longing, alienation or passing each other by.
If I were to try and generalize, I would say that love awakens within my soul an unusual power, but the circumstances of that love crush my soul. Often I feel an unbearable longing for the other woman but the moment she suggests to me that we might stay together a little longer or even go away somewhere for a day and a night, I become frightened that it might threaten my home even more. My heart is staggering, in the words of the prophet. But what is a home? Can it still be a place where we sleep but at the same time yearn for someone who is not allowed to cross its threshold? Then I thought to myself how many spouses lie alongside each other in their homes and think about another. Is it perverted? It isn’t natural, that’s for sure. Except that man is losing touch with nature and therefore also with natural behaviour; therein lies his exclusiveness. His exclusiveness can be seen in his recognition of God above him, in having eaten from the tree of knowledge of good and evil and being aware of his end here on earth, as well as in the way he destroys nature, exterminates other creatures, deceives his nearest and dearest, and kills his brothers. In addition he prays and is always ready to converse with someone who never replies.
Two days ago Martin and I were returning from a ministers’ course where we talked about absolution, among other things. Some were of the view that it is actually a duty specifically rooted
in Scripture to rid the believer of his feelings of guilt. (Paul to the Galatians: ‘Bear one another’s burdens.’) Others pointed out that the priesthood has usurped this right for themselves, thereby improperly lording it over others.
‘In my opinion, ‘Martin said to me, ‘those are all artificial quarrels. If one wants to lord it over others, there are plenty of other opportunities to do so. But people will always look for somebody who will tell them that even though aspects of their lives have gone wrong, they still have the hope of leading a decent life. If you don’t tell them that, then someone else will, but they won’t say the most important thing: Go and sin no more!’
I realized that my life was also going wrong and I too needed to hear that I have the hope of leading a decent life. Martin would undoubtedly give me absolution, maybe he’d even understand me, but I haven’t yet made up my mind to talk about it. There is one thing that I have to talk to him about, though: I feel I can no longer go on preaching and I want to ask him or maybe Marie to take over my congregation for a while.
We said goodbye in front of the metro station and then the following happened to me: I took the train to Hradanské and in the subway I came upon a group of obviously drunken skinheads surrounding a dark-skinned lad. I’d say he wasn’t a gypsy, more likely an Indian. They weren’t beating him, only yelling and jostling him. The people leaving the metro walked past them, giving them a wide berth, and the police as usual were nowhere to be seen. I came right up to them and saw the fear in the eyes of the encircled youngster.
Although I too felt some fear I addressed them: ‘Why don’t you leave him alone, lads?’ I couldn’t think of anything cleverer to say at the time.
One of them turned to me. ‘What’s it to do with you, you old git? Want your face smashed too?’ And he shoved me with such force that I staggered sideways.
So now the others turned to me too. They seemed to be hesitating over which of us would make the more suitable victim. That momentary hesitation was enough for the dark-skinned youngster to take to his heels and for me to mingle with the people leaving the metro station. Martin’s right; they’re all artificial, the things we debate on those courses, and they have precious little to do with modern-day life.
Mention of the police and the subway brings to mind something else that I noticed yesterday. I was walking along our street when suddenly a police car overtook me and stopped at the corner. Four policemen got out. I observed them from a distance. They drew their pistols and looked as if they were releasing the safety catches too. They then lifted a manhole cover and started to descend into the sewer. I looked on in amazement at this film sequence but there was no camera or producer to be seen. I’d have loved to know if they were going underground in pursuit of mafiosi or skinheads, or to shoot at sewer-rats or to visit a ceremony by some particularly extreme underground sect. I reached the open manhole and stood there listening for several moments, wondering whether I would hear pistol shots, a shout or music. But there was deadly silence. It occurred to me that those four men would never emerge again. ‘So they and all that belonged to them went down alive into Sheol; and the earth closed over them, and they perished from the midst of the assembly.’
The remaining policeman sat in the car observing me with indifference.
Bára’s Saša has his spring allergy and Bára decided she would take him to the seaside whether her husband liked it or not. She asked me if I would mind her taking the trip to Barcelona.
I expressed surprise at the question.
‘But I’ll be away from you for a week,’ she explained. ‘You’ll have sent me out into the world and left yourself behind here.’
I told her I often went a whole week without seeing her even when she didn’t go away anywhere.
That’s different. She asked me whether I wouldn’t come after all. I replied – as she had recently – that we oughtn’t to tempt fate. When I got home the thought occurred to me: Why shouldn’t I go over and see her, if only for a day? I can afford it. It was a tempting thought although I knew I would never actually do it.
A dream: I was on my way to a final-year class in my secondary school, bringing with me from home a drawing board, a blanket and a pillow. Then I realized I had taken my school-leaving exams long ago and there was no reason for me to go to school at all, so I decided to go home again. I didn’t have a coat or a bag, so I put my purse and my wallet in the back pocket of my trousers, aware that it was not a wise thing to do. But what else could I do, seeing that my hands were full? I kept checking every few moments in case my belongings had been stolen. They were, of course. And by ill chance it was the wallet, which was worse than losing money. Luckily I caught sight of a boy running away from me; I ran and caught hold of him and started to search him. His pockets were full of wallets, including mine. Once I had retrieved my wallet I walked to the tram stop. The tram didn’t arrive, but instead a green bus with strangely high wheels appeared. A ladder was lowered down from the door and I was going to climb up it when I realized I had lost my blanket and pillow. I didn’t know what to do, whether to get on the bus or to look for my lost things. I let the bus leave without me but I didn’t go anywhere. I just stood there.
That is my (our) situation: we are each losing our home but lack the courage to go and meet the other. She because she’s afraid of her husband, and I because I’m afraid of God and the thought that I would be deceiving those who trust me. And we are both afraid of destroying our children’s homes. But where are our homes? Not in the bedclothes or the identity cards, certainly. Either we carry them around within ourselves, or they are lost for good.
3
Daniel travelled to Zlín for a two-day pastoral conference. He had never been a particularly sociable person, which might have been one of the reasons why he had chosen such a solitary profession. Admittedly it involved one speaking to people and even experiencing mystic unity with them at the Lord’s Supper, but at the same time one was separated from them by the pulpit, the gown and the exclusiveness of one’s vocation. However, until recently he had always looked forward to these meetings with his colleagues: the more isolated he felt in his day-to-day activity, the greater the comfort he derived from being among those who shared the same fate and had to cope with similar problems and ask themselves similar questions.
At that very moment, one of his younger colleagues was at the rostrum dealing with the question whether it was possible to accept that Jesus was born of an immaculate virgin, or whether those few verses about Mary’s virginity were merely a reflection of early biblical tradition. What lent credence to the opposite view was not only the fact that two of the gospel writers did not hesitate to prove Jesus’s kingly origins by giving Joseph’s family tree (each of them different, moreover) but also that the other two did not even mention Mary’s virginity, so they either didn’t know about it or did not accept it.
Even though the gospel account of Mary’s virginity had always raised doubts in Daniel’s mind and he had tended to see in it the influence of ancient pagan cults rather than a report of an inexplicable divine act, Daniel was unable to give the speaker his full attention. He had become increasingly absent-minded recently and he found it impossible to concentrate on anything that was at all abstract. On the other hand, his thoughts repeatedly wandered back to the problems of his private life.
During the lunch break, the conference broke up into groups. Daniel went for a walk with Martin.
They spent a few moments talking about what they had just heard. It seemed to Martin that the only thing that remained unshaken or beyond doubt in the New Testament message was the ethical message of the Sermon on the Mount. The virgin birth, along with the expulsion of evil spirits, miracles with bread and the calming of the sea, even the miraculous resurrection of the body, were all simply the products of the mythologizing talents of the early Christians.
Daniel would normally argue with him, refuting his heretical ideas, not because he regarded them as unacceptably wayward, but because the
y were too much in tune with his own doubts. When he used to assert that it was not possible to take one part of Christ’s message and consign the rest to the realm of mythological notions, it was himself he was trying to convince rather than his friend.
On this occasion he remained silent, however. What point was there in talking to his friend about theological issues when he remained silent about what was preying on his mind most of all? His very mode of life called into question even the Sermon on the Mount. He didn’t hunger and thirst after righteousness, he didn’t commit adultery solely in his heart, and he was guilty of falsehoods.
Perhaps he had overestimated his failings. The modern world takes failings into account; it frees people from the burden of the soul and sin.
What sort of category is it, the modern world? Is it an awareness that everything is permitted so long as it isn’t an obvious and demonstrable crime?
‘On the other hand, by casting doubt on what our forebears believed,’ Martin added, ‘we cast doubt on the tradition as a whole. And when people get rid of tradition, it’s like someone losing their memory.’
‘Except that what constitutes tradition,’ he added in the next breath, ‘we ourselves determine according to our taste and convictions. Because tradition can include all superstitions, prejudices and customs, such as knocking on wood in order not to speak too soon, or guardian angels. Not to mention the death penalty, faith in astrological predictions or the Christmas carp. Eat raw cabbage on an empty stomach on Wednesdays in Lent and you won’t go astray the whole year. Swallows’ droppings from a church tower will cure the fever. Eating an odd number of young mice will cure a fever …’