Ivan Klíma - Love and Garbage

We long for paradise and we long to escape from loneliness.

We attempt to do so by seeking a great love, or else we blunder from one person to another in the hope that someone will at last take notice of us, will long to meet us or at least to talk to us. Some write poetry for this reason, or go on protest marches, cheer some figure, make friends with the heroes of television serials, believe in gods or in revolutionary comradeship, turn into informers to ensure they are sympathetically received at least at some police department, or they strangle someone. Even murder is an encounter between one man and another.

Out of his isolation man can be liberated not only by love but also by hate. Hate is mistakenly regarded as the opposite of love, whereas in reality it stands alongside love and the opposite of both of them is loneliness. We often believe that we are tied to someone by love, and meanwhile we’re only tied to them by hate, which we prefer to loneliness.

Hate will remain with us so long as we do not accept that loneliness is our only possible, or indeed necessary, fate.

When we got back the others had gone on a little way with their equipment, up to the seats on which, while it was improper to sit down while on duty, one could comfortably put down the bottles of beer.

The foreman smoked and talked a lot. He promised better jobs to all of us, provided of course he managed to gain influence in the organisation. He’d send us to clean at the building sites, where, admittedly, you may get a damn tough job but you can earn more. I could move up into his place, he’d fix that. He’d make some significant changes without delay. He’d try to introduce some light mechanisation, he’d also make sure they drove us straight to our workplace. This would save a lot of time, we’d make more money, our earnings would really go up. That’s what he’d do, whereas those in charge of street cleaning now didn’t give a monkey’s, all they were interested in were their own bonuses, and they relied on perverts walking about all ponged up like hard-currency tarts.

The foreman was getting more and more agitated, and less assured. He stopped talking only when he took a swig from his bottle or when he looked in the direction of the prison, from where, it seemed, he was expecting the insidious attack.

He wouldn’t like us to think he was afraid of anything, he knew what was what, and he’d been in a few tight spots in his life. Had he ever told us how, years ago, when they first introduced the supersonic MIG-19s, it happened that a machine, almost as soon as it had taken off, sucked in a pigeon or some other bird, and instantly plunged down again. It was piloted by his chum, Lojza Havrda. He should have ejected straight away, stands to reason, but because it was a brand-new plane he didn’t want to abandon it. Naturally he was way off the runway, and as he tried to brake his MIG he took along with him anything that stood in his way: bushes, empty drums, and the mock planes outside the hangar. Worst of all, he was headed straight for the new quarters. They were just having their midday break when someone yelled: Get the hell out! He’d looked out of the window and saw the eight-ton giant, fully tanked up, tearing straight towards them. No one quite knew what was happening, they leapt out of the back windows. He alone stayed behind and watched Lojza wrestling with that kite. It was like a dream, but a few yards from the men’s quarters he braked it to a halt. Now of course he should have got out of the crate as quickly as possible, but not Lojza! And he, the foreman, had wasted no time then, jumped out of the window and raced up to the plane. Found Lojza in the cockpit, all bloody, unable to move by himself. He got him out of the harness and carried him down on his back. Not till he’d dragged his mate to the crew quarters did it occur to him that the whole caboodle could have blown up, and them with it.

‘And did it?’ I asked.

The foreman hesitated, as if he couldn’t remember, then he shook his head. ‘The fire crew drove up and sprayed it with foam.’

‘D’you know that he gave me a picture?’ Mrs Venus said to me.

‘Who?’ I didn’t understand.

‘My old gent, of course. About a month ago. A big picture he had over his bed.’

‘Oil?’

‘Virgin with the infant Jesus. Said to me: “You take this picture, dear lady, I can’t see it any longer anyway.”’

The beer was finished. The youngster picked up the empties and put them into his big bag; he’d take them back to the supermarket. He was walking slowly, as if the uphill journey exhausted him.

I too found it difficult to breathe. A blanket was spreading over the city, and smoke and fog were billowing right down into the streets.

I thought we wouldn’t see each other in a hurry, that she’d also made a decision for me. She hadn’t just left the chalet in the foothills, but she’d left me as well, she’d been wise to withdraw from me. Even though the dawning day would now and again greet me with dead eyes, I still felt a sense of relief.

For nearly a month we both remained silent, then I phoned her to ask how she was.

She’d been in bed for the best part of a week, she informed me, she couldn’t even move, she felt so sick. Her voice was full of pain, reproach, but also tenderness. I suddenly realised that I’d been waiting for that voice all that time. I was still close to her, so close she could move me with a few words.

Why did you wait so long before you rang? she asked. You were offended? I was able to offend you after all you’ve done to me?

This is a way of telling me she still loves me, she’s waiting for me. An hour later I give her a purple gerbera and kiss her. Her lips are dry.

She’d gone to the country when she didn’t hear from me, she’d planted some trees, she’d obviously injured her back, for three days she’d lain motionless in her cottage, alone.

She limps over to the bed and I fill a vase with water.

A neighbour had found her and called for an ambulance, at the hospital they’d given her a jab so she could at least manage the bus ride. And I hadn’t even phoned her. You could really forget me so soon? she asks.

I know I won’t forget her as long as I live, but for her the inevitable question is: What good does it do to lie somewhere all alone?

You’ve never considered staying with me altogether?

She’s testing my resolution, my devotion, she forgets that I couldn’t very well stay with her even if I wanted to. After all, she’s got her husband. Maybe she’s prepared to drop him, but I’ve never asked her to do that, I’ve never wanted that kind of arrangement.

How could I possibly not consider it?

But what good is that to her? she asks.

What good is it to her that I have spent nights reflecting on how I would, how we would, live — what use is it to her when nothing has actually changed, when I’m not really with her, when I see her only in secret?

I go out to the supermarket and then cook lunch for us.

You’re so good to me, she says. When you have time! When you can fit me in.

I want to wash up, but she asks me to leave everything and come to her. She’s lying down. I hold her hand. She looks at me, her eyes, as always, draw me into depths where there isn’t room for anything else, for anything except her.

She asks what I’ve been doing all this time.

I tell her about Dad, about my son, I try to explain what I’ve been writing about, but she wants to know if I’ve thought of her, if I thought of her every day.

She’d left me in the middle of the night and she’d left me on my own in a strange hotel, and then for a few more weeks, so I should feel the hopelessness of living without her. I’m beginning to understand that she left me in order to push me, at long last, into making a decision.