They love their bodies. We neglected ours. They love to travel. We stayed put. They love adventure. We lived our lives at meetings. They love jazz. We insipidly imitated folk music. They're devoted to themselves. We wanted to save the world. With our messia-nism we nearly destroyed it. Maybe they with their selfishness will save it."
10
How is it possible? The king! That upright figure on his horse,
veiled in bright colors!
How many times have I seen him, how many times have I imagined him! The most intimate image of all! And now that it's turned into reality, all intimacy is gone. Suddenly it's just a larva daubed with paint, and I don't know what's inside. But what is there of intimacy in the real world other than my king?
My son. The person nearest to me. I stand in front of him, and I don't know whether it is he or not. What, then, do I know if I don't know even that? Of what am I sure in this world if I don't have even that certainty?
11
While Zemanek delivered himself of his eulogy of the younger generation, I contemplated Miss Broz and found her to my sorrow a handsome and likable young woman; I felt envious regret that she wasn't mine. She was walking alongside Zemanek, talking away, taking his arm every other second, turning confidentially towards him, and I was reminded (as I am reminded more often every year) that since Lucie I'd had no girl I loved and respected. Life had mocked me by sending me a reminder of that failure precisely in the features of the mistress of the man whom only the day before I thought I'd defeated in a grotesque sexual combat.
The more I liked Miss Broz, the more I realized how completely she shared the mentality of her contemporaries, for whom I and my contemporaries merged into a single indistinct mass, all deformed by the same incomprehensible jargon, the same overpoliticized thinking, the same anxieties, the same bizarre experiences from some dark and already distant era.
At that moment, I suddenly understood that the similarity between myself and Zemanek did not lie merely in the fact that Zemanek had changed his views and thus drawn nearer to mine; the similarity was deeper and affected our destinies
as a whole:
in the eyes of Miss Broz and her contemporaries we were alike even when we were at each other's throats. I suddenly felt that if I were forced to tell Miss Broz the story of my expulsion from the Party, it would seem to her remote and too
literary
(yes, the subject has been dealt with in too many bad novels), and that in this story both I and Zemanek, both my thinking and his, would seem equally unlikable (equally twisted, equally monstrous). I saw the conciliatory waters of time, which, as we all know, can efface the differences between entire eras, let alone between two puny individuals, closing over our quarrel, which I had felt was still contemporary and alive. But I fought tooth and nail against the reconciliation offered by time; I do not live in eternity; I am anchored to the thirty-seven years of my own life, and I have no wish to be detached from them (as Zemanek detached himself when he was so quick to embrace the mentality of his juniors), no, I will not shirk my fate, I will not detach myself from my thirty-seven years even if they represent so insignificant and fleeting a fragment of time that it is already being forgotten, has been forgotten.
And were Zemanek to lean over toward me confidentially, start talking about the past, and ask for reconciliation, I would refuse; yes, I would refuse that reconciliation even if Miss Broz interceded, and all her contemporaries, and time itself.
12
Fatigue. Suddenly I wanted to say good-bye to it all. To go away and stop worrying. I have no wish to remain in this world of material things that I don't understand, that deceive me. There still exists another world. A world where I am at home and with which I am familiar. There is the path, the wild rosebush, the deserter, the wandering minstrel, and Mother.
But in the end I took hold of myself. I must. I must take my quarrel with the world of material things to its conclusion. I must look into the very abyss of all errors and deceptions.
Should I ask someone? The horsemen of the Ride? And make myself a laughingstock? I remembered this morning. The robing of the king. And at once I knew where I must go.
13
Our pauper king, a righteous one, the horsemen were calling
from a few houses farther on, and we followed them. The richly beribboned rumps of the horses, blue, pink, green, and violet, bobbed up and down in front of us. Zemanek suddenly pointed in their direction: "There's Helena." I looked over to where he was pointing, but all I could see was the colorful bodies of the horses. Zemanek pointed again. "There!" Then I saw her, half hidden behind a horse, and I felt myself blush: the way Zemanek had pointed her out (not as "my wife," but as "Helena") showed that he knew I knew her.
Helena was standing on the edge of the sidewalk holding a microphone in her outstretched hand; a wire ran from the microphone to a tape recorder that hung over the shoulder of a youth in a leather jacket and jeans, with earphones over his ears. We stopped not far from them. Zemanek said (abruptly and casually) that Helena was a wonderful woman, that she still looked fabulous and was very capable as well, and that he wasn't surprised we'd hit it off.
I felt my cheeks burn: Zemanek hadn't intended his remark as an attack, on the contrary, he had said it in a most affable tone, and I was also left in no doubt as to the real state of things by the way Miss Broz was looking at me, with significant, smiling glances, as if bent on showing that she was fully informed and perfectly sympathetic, better still, in complicity.
Meanwhile, Zemanek continued his casual references to his wife, making it plain (by hints and innuendos) that he knew everything but didn't object, since he was perfectly liberal when it came to Helena's private life; to give his words an air of nonchalance, he pointed to the youth with the tape recorder and said that the boy there ("Doesn't he look like a gigantic beetle with those earphones?") had been dangerously in love with Helena for two years and I ought to keep an eye on him. Miss Broz laughed and asked how old he was two years ago. Seventeen, said Zemanek, old enough to fall in love. Then he added jokingly that Helena wasn't a cradle-robber, that she was a virtuous woman, but that a boy like that would grow more furious the less successful he was and would surely put up a fight. Miss Broz added (in the spirit of meaningless banter) that I looked as though I could handle him.
"I'm not so sure about that," said Zemanek with a smile.
"Don't forget that I worked in the mines. I still have some of those muscles left." I wanted to say something insignificant and wasn't aware that this reminder would overstep the bounds of banter.
"You worked in the mines?" asked Miss Broz.
"These twenty-year-olds," Zemanek went on, sticking doggedly to his topic, "are really dangerous in a gang. If they don't like you, you're in for it."
"How long?" asked Miss Broz.
"Five years," I said.
"When was that?"
"I got out nine years ago."
"Oh, that's ancient history, your muscles are all flabby by now," she said, wanting to add her own little quip to the friendly banter. But I was thinking at that moment that my muscles were not flabby, that I was still in excellent shape, and that I could certainly beat up the blond man I was chatting with—but that (most important and most depressing) I had nothing but my muscles to rely on in order to settle our old score.
Again I pictured Zemanek turning to me with a smile and asking me to forget everything that had happened between us, and I felt I'd been double-crossed: Zemanek's plea for forgiveness would be supported not only by his change of views, not only by time, not only by Miss Broz and her contemporaries, but by Helena too (yes, now they were all on his side!), because if Zemanek forgave me her adultery, it was merely a bribe for me to forgive him.
When I saw (in my imagination) his face of a blackmailer sure of his powerful allies, I felt such a desire to hit him that I could actually see myself in the act. The riders were shouting, whirling around, the sun was splendidly golden, Miss Broz was making some remark, and before my furious eyes the blood was running down his face.
Yes, this was what I imagined; but what would I really do if he were to ask me to forgive him?
I realized with horror that I would do nothing.
Meanwhile we'd made our way over to Helena and her technician, who was removing his earphones. "Have you already met?" she asked, surprised to see me with Zemanek.
"We've known each other for a long time," he said.
"How?" She was astonished.
"We've known each other since our student days: we were in the same department at the university," Zemanek explained, and I had the impression that he was leading me up the last steps towards that ignominious place (like the scaffold) where he would ask me for my forgiveness.
"Heavens, what a coincidence!" said Helena.
"It happens all the time," said the technician, to remind them of his existence.
"I haven't introduced you," Helena said to me. "This is Jindra."
I shook hands with Jindra (an unattractive freckled youth) and Zemanek said to Helena,
"Miss Broz and I had intended to take you back with us, but now I see that wouldn't suit you, that you'd rather go back with Ludvik ..."
"You're coming with us?" asked the youth in jeans, sounding less than friendly.
"Is your car here?" Zemanek asked me.
"I haven't got a car," I answered.
"Then you can go with them," he said.
"I go eighty!" said the youth in jeans. "If that scares you ..."
"Jindra!" Helena rebuked him.
"You could come with us," said Zemanek, "but I suspect you prefer your new friend to your old one." As if in passing, he had referred to
me as his
friend,
and I was certain that the humiliating reconciliation was only a few steps away; moreover, Zemanek had fallen silent for a moment, as if hesitating, as if he wanted to take me off for a private talk (I hung my head as if to lay it on the block), but I was mistaken: Zemanek looked at his watch and said: "We don't have much time because we have to be in Prague by five. We'll just have to say goodbye! Ciao, Helena!" He shook her hand. "Ciao," he said to me and to the sound technician, and shook our hands too.
Miss Broz also shook hands with everyone, and then, arm in arm, they left.
They left. I couldn't tear my eyes off them: Zemanek walking erect, his blond head proudly (victoriously) held high, the brunette at his side; even from the back she was beautiful, she walked lightly, I liked her; I liked her almost painfully, because her departing beauty showed me its icy
indifference,
just like Zemanek (with his affability, garrulity, memory, and conscience), just like my entire past, the past I had made a rendezvous with in my hometown in order to be avenged on it, the past that had strolled by me unseeing, as if it didn't know me.
I was stifled by humiliation and shame. I wanted nothing more than to disappear, go off by myself, wipe out the whole story, the stupid joke, wipe out Helena and Zemanek, wipe out the day before yesterday, yesterday, and today, wipe it all out, so that not a trace remained. "Would you mind if I had a word with Mrs. Zemanek in private?" I asked the sound technician.
I took Helena aside; she wanted to explain something, muttered something about Zemanek and his girl, a confused apology for having had to tell him everything; but nothing interested me at this moment; I was filled with a single desire: to get away, away from here and from the whole of this story; to draw a line through it all. I knew I had no right to deceive Helena any longer; she was innocent with respect to me and I had acted vilely, having turned her into a mere object, into a stone I had tried (and failed) to throw at someone else. I was stifled by the ridiculous failure of my vengeance, and I was determined to put an end to it all, at least now, when it was certainly too late, but nevertheless before it became more than too late. However, it was no use trying to explain everything to her: not only would I have hurt her with the truth, but she would hardly have been able to understand it. So all I could do was to repeat several times that this was our last time together, that I wouldn't be seeing her again, that I didn't love her, and that she must understand this.
It was far worse than I'd foreseen: Helena went pale, started shaking, wouldn't believe me, wouldn't let me go; I went through a minor martyrdom before I could finally get rid of her and leave.
14
All around me there were horses and streamers, and I stood there, stood and stood, and then Jindra came up and took my hand and squeezed it and asked me what's the matter, what's wrong, and I let him hold my hand and said, nothing, Jindra, nothing at all, and my voice sounded like someone else's, strangely high, and then I started talking very fast about what we still needed to tape, we've got the calls, we've got two interviews, I still have the commentary to do, so I went on about things I couldn't possibly keep my mind on, and he stood there silent beside me, crushing my hand.
He'd never touched me before, he was always too shy, but everyone knew he was in love with me, and now he was standing beside me and crushing my hand, and I was babbling on about the program and I wasn't thinking about it, I was thinking about Ludvik, and then also, it's funny, I found myself wondering what I looked like to Jindra, whether the shock had made me look hideous, maybe not, I hope not, I wasn't crying, I'm just edgy, that's all....
Listen, Jindra, leave me alone for a moment, I'll go write the commentary and then we can tape it, he wouldn't let go and kept asking gently what's the matter, Helena, what's the matter? but I twisted away from him and went over to the District Committee building where we'd borrowed a room, I went there, at last I was alone, an empty room, I collapsed on the chair and put my head on the table and didn't move. I had a terrible headache. I opened my bag to see if there was anything I could take for it, I don't know why I opened it because I knew I had nothing, but then I remembered that Jindra carries a whole pharmacy with him, his trenchcoat was hanging on the clothes tree, I rummaged through his pockets, and sure enough I found a small