Ivan Klima - The Ultimate Intimacy

He not only had perfect pitch, he also had almost perfect recall: the text that he had read many times was etched into his memory.

When he was almost home, it occurred to him that presents and flowers were usually offered for a birthday or some other celebratory occasion. But unearned gains were no cause for celebration.

So he went back and took a tram. He then changed on to a bus which took him out to the cemetery. The trees between the graves were still bare; only a solitary sallow by the cemetery wall was covered in silvery catkins.

He reached the family grave. The freshly turned earth was fragrant. The tombstone still bore only the names of his father and his first wife. The date of her death preceded even that of his fathers. It was a long time ago, almost eighteen years. In recent times, cancer had become a more frequent cause of death, of young children as well, but in those days it was regarded as an old persons illness. He had found it almost impossible to believe when the doctor in the hospital told him his wife had an incurable disease. 'But we've got a little baby,' had been his totally illogical response at the time.

'That might have caused the tumour to come more quickly,' the doctor had replied, not understanding his comment on their fate, 'but it would most likely have happened anyway.'

Old people die and however distressing it is, it is part of the order which God has established for human life. But another component of that order is that none of the living ever knows the hour of his death. It is only pride that makes us think we have the right to some preordained number of days.

A large jam-jar full of rainwater stood by the gravestone. His mother's body was still lying there, but what remained of the body that he had embraced twelve years before? And where do your souls now dwell, my loved ones?

He ought to buy a decent vase. He placed the jar in front of the

gravestone and arranged the roses in it in such a way that their heads rested against the marble. He then prayed for a long time in silence.

8 Letters

Dearest,

The little one has just gone off to sleep. You needn't worry about her. Your mother is staying here overnight now. Yesterday Evička called her 'Nanna'! I'm sitting in our room and ought to be writing a sermon but I can't concentrate. I keep on thinking about you. It's empty here without you, even though someone is always dropping in, and the place is often full of people. But I don't need to tell you that. And everyone asks about your health and is praying for you to get well soon.

And the Strakas told me about a healer in Stará Ves, a Mr Zástěra. He draws strength from the trees and then transmits it to people. Mrs Straková used to have that big lump on her face and the doctors said she'd need an operation to remove it, but then Zástěra laid his hands on her three times and the lump disappeared. They told me people come from Prague to see him, and from as far away as Brno and Olomouc. Even doctors visit him, apparently, and when they see the results they say they have no explanation for it. He even cures conditions which they regard as incurable. When you come back from hospital we'll go and see him.

This Sunday I intend to preach on Matthew 14, on the feeding of the five thousand, but what caught my attention in particular was a sentence that we don't tend to lay much stress on: 'And Jesus went forth and saw a great multitude and was moved with compassion toward them, and healed their sick.' I realized that it still applies, his power to heal anyone who arouses his compassion. And it can know no bounds, can it, since he's the embodiment of love? That's why he came among us mortals and died the way he did. It was to cure those of us who are sick and to give us life — here and beyond the grave — a life of love and hope. That's going to be the theme of my sermon and you know that above all I'll be speaking for you and about you, so that you'll get well.

I want you to know that I'm with you every moment of the day in my prayers and my thoughts, and at night in my dreams.

Last night I dreamt we were walking alongside the River Vltava at Zbraslav. It was a sunny summer's day and your hair glowed in the sun as if it was on fire. And you were completely well and you were laughing and I could hear your laughter. And then all of a sudden a boat arrived, a big river steamer full of happy passengers. We could hear music from on board and see the coloured lanterns. And…

Evička just called me, so I went and warmed her some semolina and she's sleeping again.

I won't continue with the dream. I'd better say cheerio, because I have to get on with my sermon. I'll pop the letter into the hospital for you tomorrow and the day after tomorrow is a visiting day again. I can't wait to see you and I hug you in my thoughts. Keep the faith. Don't lose hope. You know what he said: 'Take heart, daughter, your faith has made you well.'

Fondest love, Dan

18 November 76 My dearest Dan,

They've just brought me your letter and I'd sooner write straight back. I know you're coming tomorrow, but what if something happens in the meantime? I feel terribly weak, but that doesn't mean I've stopped hoping and believing. It's just that I can't ignore what awaits me. After all, you can see it too, can't you, and the reason you didn't tell me the end of your dream wasn't because Evička woke up but because you yourself got a shock. Because only I went on board the boat, even though you wanted to follow me. And the boat moved off and you didn't manage to get on board. That was the way it was, wasn't it, Dan? But the passengers were all cheerful. They weren't sorrowful even though they knew they would never return. That's the important thing, dearest. That boat isn't going to capsize, it's just going somewhere the two of us have not visited yet. But that's no reason to grieve, is it?

I won't be coming back to you, even though it makes me sad to think about it, Dan. I'm sad it all lasted such a short time, that I didn't get a chance to enjoy Evička, that I'm leaving the two of you on your own, even though I

don't want to. I don't want to leave you. You know I was happy with you. I don't know what made me write 'was' — I still am happy, of course.

But when that boat takes me away, don't grieve. You've got to go on living, Dan. You have a power within you that you'll be able to transmit to others: strength and wisdom and love. It has been a privilege to live with you. Maybe I won't be here tomorrow, but people will remain. Our little girl, all of them, are going to go on needing you and you will go on serving them. And even if we must part for a while, don't let it distress you, don't be sadder than you need be. We'll meet again one day, after all. In a place where nobody will ever separate us again.

Forgive me for writing this particular letter. It's not from lack of faith, it's just that I'm afraid of leaving without having said the most important thing.

All my love,

Your Jitka

28 November 76 Dear Rút,

Something terrible has happened. Jitka died. I don't know how I'm going to live. I'm trying in vain to find some consolation in scripture, from the thought that God's will is inscrutable. Evička will be six months old in two days' time.

I enclose the death announcement. That's as much as I can write.

Your Dan

3 April 1994 Dear Reverend, my friend and deliverer,

I must thank you most of all for your last visit. And also, of course, for the things you brought me, especially the fruit and bananas. I know you or your children don't even have everything you need. But you're the sort of person who makes sacrifices in order to give other people a treat. I've never met anyone else like you. Never. I've only ever known the sort of people who try to fleece the next fellow, to hurt him or even kill him. I used to get drunk with the gang, smoke grass and shoot dope. We used to have a laugh and