Ivan Klíma - Judge On Trial

A wizened old man approached in the kind of hat that painters wore at the turn of the century, carrying a black umbrella that looked rather silly on a cloudless summer day. ‘Excuse me,’ he asked, ‘are this lady and gentleman foreigners?’

Adam nodded. He had a feeling he’d seen the man here on some occasion, or more likely remembered him from when he lived here.

‘I do beg your pardon, but are they Germans?’

‘No, Americans.’

‘A pity. If they understood German, I could explain something to them.’

‘Perhaps I might interpret it for you,’ Alena offered.

‘That would be very kind of you,’ he returned raising his hat solemnly. ‘They are young people and I don’t expect they know anything about John Hus.’ The old man lifted his head and looked up at the stone features. ‘They will be unaware that modern times started as much with this man as they did with Gutenberg or Columbus. If you’d be so kind as to tell them, young lady, that Master Hus died for the truth. He died a martyr, and yet he only needed to say one word and he could have saved everything that people set such store by: his office, his property and his life.’

She translated that sentence and they listened with an interest that might not have been feigned, the sort of interest which people reserve for drunks, lunatics, pavement artists or sword-swallowers.

‘And if you’d be so kind as to translate this also,’ the old man continued, ‘it was not just Master Hus, but the entire nation that took up arms to defend the truth they’d learned from him, and they went on to stir the conscience of the world, even though they were later disgraced and defeated.’ The old fellow tipped his distinctive hat and moved away, while the barefoot American girl exclaimed ‘Fantastic. Fantastic.’ It might have applied to the chatty old gentleman or to nations that took up arms in defence of the truth.

Adam finally guided them to the Old-New Synagogue. After that he only showed them St Wenceslas from the car window as they passed, before dropping them with relief in front of the Hotel Flora. Then silence fell in the car. He was no longer in any mood for talk, and his wife and the bespectacled Czech youth were glumly silent. Then the boy, with single-word directions, guided him to a street he’d never been in before, and with the same shortness took his leave. (As Adam was driving away he glimpsed him in the rear-view mirror standing immobile on the pavement staring for some strange reason after their departing car.) And at last they were alone. He wanted to take her by the hand at least, but she slipped out of his grasp and he noticed that her spirits had suddenly slumped; she looked tired, almost broken, as if the life had slipped out of her. ‘How was it, then?’

‘OK. The same as usual.’ She hesitated. ‘Then I met Jim and Jean; they were on their way back from a seminar in Vienna. They’re Quakers.’

‘And that Czech,’ he asked, ‘he was on his way back from Vienna too?’

‘No. Honza was with us. How are the children?’

It struck him she had asked him once already, but he replied, ‘They’re fine. And Martin’s learned a new song.’ He couldn’t recall at this particular moment what the song was about and he never remembered tunes. When he glanced at her he noticed that she wasn’t listening anyway. ‘What’s the matter?’ But he knew there was nothing, that she had had a couple of exciting and seemingly exhausting days and now she was overcome with tiredness. The best thing to do was to leave her alone, help her to bed as soon as possible and not take too much notice of her.

‘They reminded me awfully of America, the time we were in that commune outside Taos. They’re different. They travel to famine-stricken countries and help in hospitals, while we…’

‘What about us?’

‘We do nothing. We stuff ourselves, go to the cottage, sit around chatting, and most of all: nothing.’ After a while, she added: ‘I’d like to live among people like that. Go back. Or go off to a kibbutz.’

‘You know it’s out of the question!’

‘Why?’

‘We’ll never get out of here. And besides: I don’t want to live in a commune.’

‘But I do.’

‘You’re tired.’

She closed her eyes. ‘I’d like to live with people who care about me. Nobody here cares about anyone.’

‘How about all our friends here?’

‘We only mix with your friends. And they only care about legal stuff or politics.’

‘You know that’s not true.’

‘And they’re old.’

‘You should have married someone younger!’

‘There you are, I’ve only just come home and you already want an argument. You never manage to be pleasant.’

He controlled himself and said nothing.

‘I invited them round this evening.’ On this announcement she brightened up slightly.

‘Who?’

‘Jim and Jean. Honza as well.’

‘Listen,’ he tried to object, ‘what do you want to go inviting people straight away this evening for? You’re tired and we’ve not seen each other for nearly a week. The children are looking forward to you. And so am I!’

‘But they’re only here today!’

And he really had been looking forward to her. He had been looking forward to her embrace. But she wasn’t thinking about that.

‘I thought we should invite some of our friends too.’

‘Won’t they be too old?’

‘You see! You’re always so cantankerous.’

5

It was two hours after midnight when the last guest left. The room was filled with smoke. Adam was quickly opening all the doors and windows. Her head ached slightly. She felt nostalgia creeping over her inexorably. She knew that this mood invariably came on whenever she got overtired or felt off-colour, but knowing its cause did nothing to lessen her misery. She carried the dirty plates out to the kitchen and made an effort not to cry. Such a mountain of washing-up. She ought to do it now or the food would dry on by morning. And she would have to start packing in the morning, because the children had to have a holiday. Adam would be chivvying her, he did nothing but rush her all the time. He himself drove onward like a tank, capable of everything, except treating her with a little tenderness. Nobody treated her tenderly. Or rather, she corrected herself, no one had till now.

She returned to the living room. The carpet covered in cigarette ash, the chairs all over the place, the remains of a glass of wine with a cigarette-end floating in it. She felt sick. If only he’d come and tell her he loved her or he’d missed her. She opened the door to the bedroom slightly. He was kneeling, making the bed. There were bags under his eyes and his shirt-tail was half out. She realised how fat he was, not very maybe, but compared with the other, his backside was so enormous, she shuddered with aversion. In a moment they would go to bed and he would want to make love to her. It was something he always took for granted, whenever he’d not seen her for a long time, like having a meal when he was hungry. He hadn’t the patience to woo her afresh each time. His love was monotonous and it hid not a trace of fantasy or poetry.

‘You haven’t even asked me what sort of time I had.’

‘When did I get a chance to?’

‘How did you like Honza?’ And immediately she was ashamed of her clumsiness.

‘I don’t know! He talked a lot. What about him?’

What about him? Nothing. He ought to be of no interest, though he was. Anyway she couldn’t talk to Adam about it. She turned back the bedding from a corner of the divan and sat down. The objects in the bedroom started to swim like a painting when the brush was too wet. ‘Yesterday we held a farewell party; we organised a fancy dress ball.’ The objects became dim. Her eyes started to close. ‘He came as a pirate! He’s still a little boy.’