Ivan Klíma - Judge On Trial

It was an odd feeling to be waiting for his daughter. During the previous three weeks — wary and full of longing — he had grown used to waiting for Alexandra. Sometimes they had managed to drive to the Vyšehrad attic room during the lunch-hour and make love there. Most days, he had also waited for her after work. They would have dinner together and if she had the time, would go back once more to the small room where they could make love. Once they had actually managed to get off work early in the afternoon and driven out of town. On the way, they were able to see autumn settling in on the hillsides along the River Vltava: some slopes were yellow, some turning red and others were already flame-red, and he would never have noticed their colourfulness but for her. They had a meal in a country pub and then made love in the woods, which still exhaled a summer warmth. On the return journey she told him about the books she had been reading recently: he found her way of recounting them made even the most boring stories seem interesting, like the autumn trees they were passing.

He caught sight of his daughter in the tram as it passed, her nose pressed to the glass of the door. She saw him too, and waved.

Previously he had always carefully weighed up his conduct, accepting too much responsibility for actions for which he was not answerable. He had been used to perceiving the world around him in all its distressing and wounding details; now it was beginning to be lost in mists. He would spend his nights in one place and go to work in another; people moved about him and sometimes required his presence, or his views or his answers. They cried, remonstrated with him, implored him, relied on him, prevaricated, tried to pull the wool over his eyes or win him over, while all the time he lived between two encounters, between the last embrace and the next. For how much longer?

‘Give it here!’ he said, taking the red school bag from her hands. ‘You’ve not been home yet?’

‘But I wouldn’t have had time!’

‘Had your lunch?’

‘No,’ she admitted. ‘There were so many children in the dining room. I was afraid I’d be late.’

They crossed the street. She stopped in front of the window of a gift shop.

‘Have you already decided what you want to buy?’

‘No.’

‘And have you got your money?’

‘I’ll have a look.’ She took her bag from him and rummaged in it for a moment. Then she pulled out her pencil case. The pencils inside were all sharpened in exemplary fashion. From a side pocket she withdrew a folded fifty-crown note. ‘Do you think this will be enough?’

‘Bound to be. Grandma doesn’t expect you to give her anything expensive.’

She stood looking in the shop window obviously captivated by the painted jugs, costume dolls, Good Soldier Švejks and ashtrays of fool’s gold.

He had not spoken to Alexandra today yet. He had been stuck in a meeting from first thing till mid-morning. Then he had tried to call her, letting the number ring a long time but unable to overcome the instrument’s callous unconcern. Most likely she was still waiting for him to call her. If he didn’t get through to her, who would she go to lunch with, who would she make a date with for the evening?

He scolded himself for failing either to trust her more, or to pull himself together before he ended up fettering himself, which would be the path to destruction.

He guided his daughter into the cosmetics shop next door. They had a gift package of three over-priced soaps in a gold-coloured box on a bed of pink velvet. The box took her fancy. She also chose a skin cream for thirty crowns. ‘But it’s going to come to over fifty crowns altogether,’ he warned her.

She unearthed several coins from the pocket of her anorak. ‘Will this be enough?’

He counted all the coins. ‘Yes, but you won’t have a single crown left.’

‘That doesn’t matter.’

He found it touching that she was willing to spend all her savings on a present for his mother.

They left the shop. Then he took her to a milk bar and ordered her a milk shake and two open sandwiches. He took a milk dessert for himself. He watched her as she drank, her little nose submerged in the glass. He felt tenderly towards her but was unsure how to express it. ‘Do you want my whipped cream?’

She scooped it up. ‘Don’t you eat it?’

‘No, I’ve never eaten whipped cream.’

‘Didn’t Grandma get cross with you?’

‘She didn’t know. It was during the war. Even the milk was rationed. Whipped cream was something we didn’t even dream of.’

‘Not even before the war?’

‘I can’t remember any further back.’

‘Grandma said you could buy everything before the war. Before the war, how old were you?’

‘The same age as Martin now.’

‘Do you think Martin won’t remember anything either when he grows up?’

‘I really couldn’t say. Have you got the presents?’

‘Wait a mo, I’ll have a look!’ She bent down to her bag. He looked at her blonde head and narrow shoulders. He ought to be her protector. His own childhood had not been especially happy but at least he had had someone he could trust and run to for protection. Who was she going to trust, when one day she discovered that her nearest and dearest had let her down and some Alice or other declared officially that the home she was used to was no longer her home. What was she going to do, how was she going to behave? Was she ever going to have the courage to become attached to anyone again?

He was overcome with regret at what had happened, which had been partly his fault. But in this life what could one retract or put right? To regret one’s own actions made sense if one was determined not to commit them ever again. Otherwise one’s regret was simply agonising, or more likely, consoling self-deception.

‘Look, Daddy,’ she said, just after they left the milk bar, ‘they’re showing Dumbo here. We could go and see it today, it’s Friday.’

He hesitated. What had his daughter been doing these past weeks? What had made her happy, what had made made her sad? He did not think he had noticed. ‘All right. Buy some tickets for five thirty.’ He gave her twenty crowns.

‘Are you sure you’ll make it? I know you’ve got lots of work.’

‘I’ll be there on time, don’t worry.’

‘We’ll wait for you outside the cinema.’

‘There’s no need to worry!’ he said, stroking her hair. He hurried away from her to go and call his mistress at last.

She answered before he’d even finished dialling.

‘What’s up? Why didn’t you call?’

‘I did call you.’

‘You called me?’

‘It was engaged.’

‘You can’t have strained yourself. I’ve not budged from this chair since this morning. I’m colouring a stork.’

‘Are you alone?’

‘You’re joking! There are five of us stuck here. One of them is daubing a little boy stork, one a mummy stork, one the background, one the little girl stork. I’m the daddy. Can’t you show up this afternoon, at least?’

‘I’ve got tickets for the cinema at five thirty.’

‘For both of us?’

‘Manda wants to go to Dumbo .’

‘I can’t stand cartoons. You’d have to be perverted to go and enjoy the fact that some poor girls wasted two years of their lives colouring in fucking baby elephants. I thought we might go somewhere together this evening.’

‘But I promised the child…’

‘Couldn’t your wife take her?’

‘Of course she could. It’s just that I’ve got the feeling…’

‘You’ve got the feeling you ought to stand me up?’

‘We could see each other after the film.’

‘What makes you think I’ll have the time then? Do you think I’m always available when the notion takes you?’