Milan Kundera - Farewell Waltz

"I'm curious about how pigments exercise their influence over the human soul," said Bertlef doubt-fully.

"It's not a matter of pigments. A blonde unconsciously adapts herself to her hair. Especially if the blonde is a brunette who dyes her hair yellow. She tries to be faithful to her hair color and behaves like a fragile creature, a shallow doll, she demands tenderness and service, courtesy and alimony, she's incapable of doing anything for herself, all refinement on the outside and coarseness on the inside. If black hair became a universal fashion, life in this world would clearly be

better. It would be the most useful social reform ever achieved."

"So it's very likely that Ruzena is also putting on an act," Klima interjected, looking for hope in Dr. Skreta's words.

"No. I examined her yesterday. She's pregnant," said the physician.

Bertlef noticed that the trumpeter had gone pale, and he said: "Doctor, you are chairman of the Abortion Committee here, are you not?"

"Yes," said Dr. Skreta. "We're meeting on Friday."

"Perfect," said Bertlef. "There is no time to lose, because our friend is having a breakdown. I realize that in this country you don't readily authorize abortions."

"Not at all readily," said Dr. Skreta. "On the committee with me are two females who are there to represent the power of the people. They're repulsively ugly and hate all the women who come before us. Do you know who are the most virulent misogynists in the world? Women. No man, gentlemen, not even Mister Klima, whom two women have already attempted to hold responsible for their pregnancies, has ever felt such hatred for women as women themselves feel toward their own sex. Why do you think they try to seduce us? Solely to defy and humiliate their fellow women. God instilled in women's hearts a hatred of other women because He wanted the human race to multiply."

"I shall forgive this remark of yours," said Bertlef,

"because I want to return to our friends problem. Aren't you really the one who makes the decisions on that committee, and those hideous females do whatever you say:

"I'm certainly the one who decides, but this doesn't mean I want to keep on doing it. It pays nothing. Tell me, Maestro, how much are you paid, for example, for one concert?"

The amount mentioned by Klima interested Dr. Skreta: "I often think I could supplement my income by making music. I'm not a bad drummer."

"You're a drummer?" asked Klima, showing forced interest.

"Yes," said Dr. Skreta. "We have a piano and a set of drums in the Hall of the People. I play the drums in my free moments."

"That's wonderful!" exclaimed the trumpeter, pleased by the opportunity to flatter the physician.

"But I don't have any partners to have a real band with. There's only the pharmacist, who plays the piano fairly well. We've tried out some things together a few times." He broke off and seemed to be thinking. "Listen! When Ruzena appears before the committee…"

Klima gave a deep sigh. "If she would only come-"

Dr. Skreta gestured impatiently: "She'll be glad to come, just like all the others. But the committee requires the father to appear too; you'll have to be there with her. And to make the trip here worthwhile, you might arrive the day before and give a concert that evening. Trumpet, piano, drums. Tres faciunt

orchestrum. With your name on the posters, we'll fill the hall. What do you say?"

Klima was always excessively punctilious about the technical quality of his concerts, and two days earlier the physician's proposal would have seemed completely insane to him. But now he was only interested in a particular nurse's womb, and he responded to the physician's question with polite enthusiasm: "That would be splendid!"

"Really? Will you do it?"

"Of course."

"And you, what do you say?" Skreta asked Bertlef.

"It seems an excellent idea to me. But I don't know how you can make all the preparations in two days."

By way of response, Skreta got up and went over to the phone. He dialed a number, but there was no answer. "The most important thing is to order the posters right away. Unfortunately the secretary must have gone to lunch," he said. "Getting the use of the hall is child's play. The People's Education Association has an anti-alcohol meeting scheduled for Thursday, and one of my colleagues is supposed to give the lecture. He'll be delighted when I ask him to cancel because of illness. But of course you'll have to get here on Thursday morning so the three of us can rehearse. Unless it's unnecessary."

"No, no," said Klima. "It's essential. You have to prepare in advance."

"That's my opinion too," said Skreta. "Let's play them the most surefire program. I'm good at backing

up 'St. Louis Blues' and 'When the Saints Go Marching In.' I've got some solos ready, I'm curious to know what you'll think of them. For that matter, are you free this afternoon? Would you like to give it a try?''

"Unfortunately, this afternoon I have to persuade Ruzena to consent to an abortion."

Skreta waved his hand: "Forget about that! She'll consent without any coaxing."

"Doctor," Klima pleaded, "better on Thursday."

Bertlef interceded: "I too think you would do better to wait until Thursday. Today our friend would be unable to concentrate. Anyway, I don't believe he has brought his trumpet with him."

"That's a good reason!" Skreta acknowledged, and began to lead his two friends to the restaurant on the other side of the park. But Skreta's nurse caught up with them and begged him to return to his office. The doctor excused himself and let the nurse take him back to his infertile patients.

About six months earlier Ruzena had left her parents' house in a nearby village to move into a small room in Karl Marx House. God knows what she promised herself from this room's independence, but she soon real-

ized that her room's and her freedom's benefits were much less pleasant and much less intense than what she had dreamed of.

This afternoon, having returned to her room from the thermal building a little after three o'clock, she had the unpleasant surprise of finding her father waiting for her sprawled on the daybed. That was hardly convenient, for she wanted to devote herself entirely to her appearance, to do her hair and carefully choose a dress.

"What are you doing here?" she asked irritably. She held it against the doorkeeper that he was an acquaintance of her father's and always ready to let him into her room in her absence.

"I had a bit of free time," said her father. "We're having an exercise in town today."

Her father was a member of the Public Order Volunteers. Because the spa's medical staff made fun of the old men pacing up and down the streets with their armbands and their self-important manner, Ruzena was ashamed of this activity of her father's.

"If that's what amuses you!" she muttered.

"You should be glad to have a papa who's never been a loafer and never will be. We're pensioners, but we're going to show you young people we still know how to do things!"

Ruzena decided to let him talk while she concentrated on choosing her dress. She opened the wardrobe.

"I'd really like to know what things you do," she said.

"A lot of things. This town, my little girl, is an inter-

nationally known spa. And what do you see? Kids running all over the grass!"

"So what?" said Ruzena, rummaging through her dresses. Not a single one pleased her.

"Not only kids, but dogs too! The Municipal Council a long time ago issued an order that dogs have to be leashed and muzzled outdoors! But nobody here obeys it. Everybody does what he pleases. Just look at the park!"

Ruzena took out a dress and began to change behind the open wardrobe door.