Tomáš Zmeškal - A Love Letter in Cuneiform

That year Květa decided the apartment needed painting. This time, for a change, Josef was looking forward to it, since he had his future son-in-law, Maximilian, to help him, and together with Květa and Alice, they readied the apartment for this irregularly occurring holiday, this quaint domestic ritual of beautification rooted in an era of fears about public and private hygiene among the urban population. Josef left the choice of color and pattern to Květa. The only place where he reserved the right to have a say was in the color of his study, where he also strongly advocated for the absence of any pattern. Once the decisions were made, the women were sent to the countryside, and Josef and Maximilian had the whole place to themselves. Compared with how long it had always taken him working with Květa, Josef was surprised at the speed with which he and Maximilian finished the job; instead of being done on Friday evening, as he’d expected, they were finished on Thursday morning. He still had one day of vacation left, and everything was already done, including the cleanup. Suddenly Josef found himself alone in the high-ceilinged apartment, with the fresh smell of chemical pigments coming off the walls and the tang of the city wafting in through the open windows. Slowly, with no particular goal in mind, Josef began going through the papers in his desk, and so it was that the article calling for justice and the settling of old grievances came into his hands once more.

It didn’t take him long to decide. The speed of my decision, he thought, is directly proportional to the absence of my women. Forcefully folding the article into his briefcase and exiting the building, he purchased three rolls from the bakery downstairs and set out for the address listed at the end of the article. The official he found there, after a long-winded explanation of the commission’s founding principles, informed Josef that they had had a file open on Dr. Jánský for some years now. He added that Dr. Jánský was now a stock clerk and worked somewhere on the outskirts of Prague. The information surprised Josef and somewhat dulled his determination. Nonetheless, he had made up his mind not to let the case go, so he requested they give him whatever information they had available. There wasn’t much, but the official, who insisted on addressing Josef as Mr. Engineer, finally shared with him that he expected Dr. Jánský’s entire dossier to go to court in a few months, and asked Josef whether he had any desire to testify in the case. Josef said he would give it some thought, the official handed him an official-looking piece of paper, and Josef put it in his briefcase and left. A few days later he decided that, although he wasn’t too happy at the prospect, he was willing to testify, and sent the paper giving his consent back to the commission by registered mail. Then nothing happened for another few months. August 21, 1968, the Russian tanks arrived, the official from the commission emigrated to West Germany, Canada, then the United States, and eventually settled down in Argentina. The commission’s files were lost amid the confusion, the commission itself was dissolved, and Hynek Jánský finally ceased to be concerned about his fate.

(3)

Every now and then, one of Hynek’s former bosses would stop by the warehouse. They would go to the pub for a bowl of goulash or a cup of coffee and talk about the weather. The pleasant conversations affirmed their ongoing friendship. On one such visit a colleague of his, previously induced into early retirement and now back on active duty, brought him a bundle of old papers. It was raining out and the papers were drenched. He set them on the chair next to Hynek and tucked into his goulash, complaining about the weather. Once he was done eating, he wished Hynek happy reading, and before he left, he told him: “If I were you, I wouldn’t put that in the recycling.” Ever the joker, Hynek thought to himself with a faint smile. He was just grateful to still have friends he could rely on. When he got home, he cut through the rough strings with a pocket knife and the bundle of old papers unfurled before him like flowers of innocence. His whole life was there. His high school diploma, a copy of his college degree. Evaluations of him drafted by his coworkers. His entire career was in that bundle, including most of the materials and testimonies intended to serve as the basis for charges against him, assembled by the commission that wanted to take him to court. Hynek read through it all, sorting, taking notes, crossing things out. Some of the prisoners he had investigated he no longer remembered at all, others he had only a cursory recollection of, and then suddenly his eyes alighted on a carefully completed form in familiar handwriting. The numerals were so perfect they looked as though they had been stenciled. He recognized the distinctive e ’s and a ’s, as well as the signature at the end: Josef Černý, structural engineer.

Hynek felt — hurt. How could Josef do that? How could he denounce him? How was it possible? You couldn’t even count on old friends anymore. Everyone nowadays, just like that commission, just like those journalists, was whining on about truth and justice when all they really wanted was revenge. It wasn’t up to him and they knew it. Churchill and Stalin agreed between them who was going to live where, they drew the lines of influence, determining where the boundaries of empire began and ended. He just administered the geometry of power. Of all people, Josef, as a structural engineer, a stress analyst, should have understood that. How could he not, when he still lived with Květa, despite being nearly castrated? He filled out a form? He wants the truth? Let him have it. Let him enjoy it, let him feast on it, let him choke to death on the whole fucking thing. All’s fair in love and war, he knew that! Total commitment is the only way to stand the test, not just in the Middle Kingdom or the Thousand-Year Reich, but in the realm of the heart. Total commitment is pure power with no equivocation. Pure and clear as the mountain air. Total power is total love. And that’s why she was mine for ten years. For ten years her brain and her body were mine. Her thoughts and her soul. Her dark green eyes and the triangle between her thighs. Because in the total battle for her love, I won. And the winner never asks if the losers love him. The winner just wins and unreservedly destroys the slightest sign of reservations. Because, dear Josef, the winner is the man who wins. It was that simple. That straightforward. That clear. The winner overruns the trenches in love as well. The winner wins. That’s why Květa was mine for so many long, beautiful years. That’s why she came back to me: because love is control and the winner is the one who wins.

Later Hynek realized that, however fine his thoughts, he had let himself get carried away by them, and felt the need to do something practical. So he sat down at his typewriter and began to write. It was a wide-ranging letter, several pages in length, with some technical formulations that betrayed the author as someone who was employed in state administration and probably had some medical training. The style was precise and unambiguous. The writer provided an in-depth analysis of the relationship between Květa Černá, wife of engineer Josef Černý, and an investigator, professionally classified as officer-commissioner, by the name of Hynek Jánský, doctor of laws. The letter described when the relationship between Jánský and Černá had begun, how long it had lasted, and what it consisted of. Under the heading The Effectiveness of Pain, it went on to enumerate, in precise, clinical language, which methods of touching and striking the body of Květa Černá had been employed. The types of pain and types of pleasure. The reasons why she had returned again and again, even after her husband, Josef Černý, was released. The description was calm and unemotional. Dr. Jánský was satisfied; he was unequaled when it came to writing reports. After reading the letter through to himself, he was perturbed to discover he had nothing else he needed to bring to the post office. All his bills were paid, postcards sent. The next day he rode the tram to the main post office on Jindřišská Street and sent the letter by registered mail. When he filled out the form, under sender’s name he put: Květa Černá. A crafty joke, he thought. And with that the matter was settled. Yes, he was still a bit of a demiurge or spiritus agens . Still a force to be reckoned with. The feeling warmed his heart.