Tomáš Zmeškal - A Love Letter in Cuneiform

My dearest, I am now trying to overcome my conceitedness, my hollow pride, which instead deserves to be called vainglory, and after many futile attempts I have managed to forgive you. It was not easy, it was hard work. Brick by brick I dismantled the grand edifice, which only got in the way of everything and was entirely useless. I came to know the feeling that the workers must have had dismantling the remains of the unfinished Tower of Babel. My strenuous work, however, was redeemed with relief. I would hate ever again to undertake such a foolish, clumsy, and nonsensical comparison, but in my lungs I could smell the melting and the perfume of budding shoots. I will spare you all the worthless feelings which I encountered along the way. I can tell you about them later, and if you permit us to see each other at least every now and again, then perhaps we may also have some time left for that. There is but one thing I wish to ask of you: Please forgive me my complacency and conceitedness, and forgive me the pain I have caused you. I beg of you!

Though I remain convinced that time is a fixed physical quantity and I am aware that a second is merely one eighty-six-thousandth of the mean solar day, I confess, Květa, that I waver in my faith. For my senses betray me more every day, and the days fly by incessantly like a herd of stampeding colts. I fear I won’t have the chance to tell you of my lasting love. Nearly everything in life has taken less work than to admit this to you. Thus it occurred to me what a letter might look like in the language of the Hittites and their cuneiform script. I was driven to this folly by the memory of our first meeting, our first dates. This is the one thing I know I don’t have to explain to you .

Josef

When Jiří came home, he removed the translation of the letter from his briefcase as dictated to him by Professor Hájek, who had also added a few explanatory notes. Looking at his transcript of the translation, Jiří realized Alice wouldn’t be able to read his writing, and rewrote it in cursive, then returned the two original sheets of paper to the display case. Alice came home from work, the two of them had supper, and when they were done, Jiří gave her the translation to read. She washed her hands with soap, dried them, and carefully laid the letter on the table. When she had finished reading it, she read Professor Hájek’s notes, asked Jiří to explain what a neologism was, said she would take the letter home to show her mother the next day, and thanked him. Jiří wrote a letter about it to his sister, explaining that it felt like stepping onto an elevator carrying two passionate lovers who had something so important to tell each other that they ignored the other people getting on and off at each floor, who meanwhile did their best not to notice the lovers’ glances and caresses, maintaining a neutral, noncommittal smile as the elevator traveled up the shaft. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was inappropriate. He repeated to himself that honestly nobody, including him, could have known what was contained in the letter, but the feeling that he had peeked behind the screen into a bathroom where, naked and scarred, troubled, aging, and abused, love and illusions sat in the bathtub washing each other, made him very uncomfortable. It was reassuring to him that Alice’s response to the letter was far less emotional. Also she told him that if he wanted he could go with her to the hospital to see her mother the next day and explain to her exactly how the whole thing had happened and what the translator had told him. Jiří agreed and they both went to bed.

They arrived at the hospital the next morning a few minutes before eight. They climbed the stairs to the third floor and proceeded to make their way down the corridor with the vaulted ceiling to Květa’s room. Alice stopped a moment, smiled uncertainly, and pulled the translation out of her handbag. She glanced at it, then hurried to catch up with Jiří, who was now a few steps ahead. As they passed an open office, a nurse inside called out to them, and rushed past Jiří to Alice as if he were invisible. “Mrs. Černá, Mrs. Černá!” Alice stopped and looked back. “I assume you didn’t get the message?” she said. Alice shook her head and shot a quick glance at Jiří. The look on his face was neutral, as always when he was worried. He really is half English, Alice thought to herself as the nurse opened the door and they stepped into her office. Inside, a woman sitting behind a desk in a white coat told her that her mother had passed away at five thirty that morning. Only when Alice clenched her lips did Jiří realize how much she resembled Květa. Alice’s eyes wandered over a large photograph of a mountain valley behind the woman’s back. Later Alice realized that the calendar was two years old. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Černá,” said the woman behind the desk.

“I think,” Alice said, “I have to go home now.” The woman behind the desk said she just had to take the personal belongings her mother had had with her. She handed Alice a ballpoint pen and pointed to the space on the form where she was supposed to sign. Then she opened a large envelope containing several rings, a watch, a gold chain, an ID card, a wallet, a small journal, and an envelope with seventy-six crowns and a few hellers. Alice wasn’t in the mood to check anything and with an air of irritation signed to acknowledge receipt of the items. Jiří told the woman he would take care of the rest. She said that if they wanted to see the body of the deceased, they would have to call in advance, and handed Jiří a small card with a phone number and address on it. She said the body of the deceased was now at the address on the card. Alice stood, turned around, and left without saying good-bye. Jiří, realizing she was irritated, got up and followed her out. After they walked a few yards, the door to the office behind them opened again and the nurse who had led them in before came running out. “Mrs. Černá,” she called, “Mrs. Černá!” She caught up to Alice and handed her the paper with the translation of Josef’s letter. “You dropped this,” she said breathlessly. Alice took it, folded it into her handbag, and thanked the nurse. As they walked down the stairs, she looked at Jiří, pulled out the letter, and said, “Damn fools, why couldn’t they have told each other all this years ago? Old fools, both of them! Crazy fools. Why couldn’t they just talk? They were still in love. Why did my dad have to make it some complicated thing with a bunch of stupid secret writing? And my mom, too! Her too, Jiří!” She started to cry. “What were they playing around for like that? My crazy, stupid parents. Why did they have to do that? Christ on crutches, couldn’t they have just talked?” The nurse who handed her the letter watched from a distance. Jiří looked back at her several times, but as they walked down the stairs he lost sight of her. “I guess they did the best they could,” said Jiří, who was sad himself, since he felt sorry for Květa. He felt sorry, even though he had known her only briefly, and at that as a slightly arrogant, always elegantly dressed, but mostly impatient elderly lady. Alice waved her hand. “Those were different times, of course. I realize that, but he still loved her, and she loved him, so what were they doing, the crazy fools?” She stopped and looked at Jiří: “You think I wanted a pair of crackpot heroes for parents? God, no. That’s not what I wanted. I wanted normal parents who could be together and get along, more or less, but oh, no, not them. And now Mom goes and dies. They both piss me off. Now with this they’ve pissed me off for good. The both of them!”

They walked out the hospital door and headed home. Alice told Jiří not to hail a taxi, she preferred to walk. There were tears running down her cheeks, and some people turned to look at them in the street. Alice didn’t lean on Jiří for support, walking straight ahead, bolt upright. She was moving fast, but every few blocks she would suddenly stop, breathing frantically or digging through her handbag for a handkerchief. Jiří wanted to duck in somewhere and buy her tissues, but he was afraid he would lose her. He didn’t know his way around Prague that well yet. One minute she was giving him a little smile through her tears, the next she didn’t even seem to notice he was there. She was sobbing so loudly that some of the people waiting at the tram stop turned to look, assuming Jiří to be the cause. Even though he knew he had no reason to feel that way, he was embarrassed. He reassured himself with the thought, You wanted adventure, now you have it.