Ivan Klima - The Ultimate Intimacy

Nobody loves one as much as one's mother, nobody listens to one as well as she does, I'm aware of that. But whenever you're sad, Daniel, you've got me, even if I'm not able to tell you as well as your mum that I understand and share your feelings and I'm with you. Maybe it's precisely because I'm often unable to tell you and I'm shy of saying it out loud that I'm writing now to say I love you and that you're the only person for me, that you're mine.

Your Hana

1

Every second Sunday, Daniel takes the service at the preaching station at Myslice, about thirty minutes' drive away. As the service in his own church ends around ten o'clock and the one at Myslice starts at half-past ten, he abandons his own congregation just before the final hymn. He generally has his old Škoda car parked in the nearest free space and he climbs into it without even removing his gown. On this second Sunday in April, he does all the usual things but the car refuses to start. Daniel leaps out and raises the bonnet. Whatever is wrong with the car, there is no time to attempt a repair.

The sound of singing can still be heard from inside the chapel. Daniel stares at the grimy motor and he is thinking less about what might be at fault than about which members of the congregation came by car and could possibly give him a lift. Then, although he heard no one approaching, a voice immediately behind him asks, 'May I be of any assistance, Reverend?'

He knows that soprano voice only from the hymn-singing in church. He looks around. The unknown woman, who has attended his service three times already but has always got up during the last hymn and disappeared before he can ask her anything, is now standing there with her head inclined forward slightly, as if stooping. Daniel notices that her neck is long and slender like his first wife's. She looks exotic in her brightly coloured knitted cardigan, compared to the other women of the congregation at least. 'My car is here if you need to get somewhere in a hurry.'

'I do, but I can hardly impose myself on you. It's a half-hour drive.'

'That doesn't matter, I'm not busy. My husband went off on a trip yesterday and my mother is looking after our little boy.' As they walk to her car, she tells him her name is Barbora Musilová but everyone calls

her Bára. She has been attending his services for several weeks already.

He tells her he noticed her the first time. Then he adds, 'The Sunday you first came was the day my mother died.'

'I'm sorry I brought you misfortune.'

'You? I'm not superstitious, I'm afraid. My mother would have died whether you had come or not.'

'My mother is still alive. But my father died a long time ago.'

She unlocks his door first. 'The car belongs to my husband. He's obliged to show off — he likes to, in fact. So we've got this little Japanese thing with metallic paint. Not that I care about such things.'

'I'm very grateful for the lift, Sister Musilová.'

'But I don't belong to your church,' she says as they drive off.

'Did the word "sister" offend you?'

'No, why should it? There's nothing wrong with having a brother. Or having you as a brother for that matter. I just thought you ought to know.'

'Are you a Catholic?'

'No, I don't belong to any church.' Then she adds, 'My mother's Jewish but she has never attended synagogue. My father believed in communism when he was a young man. Then he stopped believing in anything, like my husband.'

'And did your mother survive the war?'

'She must have done to have me. I was born after the war, almost ten years after, in fact.'

'Of course. What I really meant was, how did she survive it?'

'She married my father before the war, when she was eighteen, a year younger than I was when I married. Fortunately she didn't get divorced, unlike me.'

'You were saying something about your husband, about him going off on a trip somewhere.'

'I remarried. Naturally enough, though God knows why. I'm sorry, I suppose I oughtn't to take the Lord's name in vain. Not in your presence, anyway.'

'Just speak the way you usually do.'

They pass the turn-off to the airport and leave the city limits. A nearby village is surrounded by flowering fruit trees. They are blossoming early this year after the warm winter. Only the past few days have been cold and at this moment clouds heavy with rain or snow are billowing along close to the ground.

'Thank you. I'm not used to talking to people like yourself.'

'But there's nothing particularly special about me.'

'I'm not used to talking to people who have a belief, and actually preach about it,' she said by way of explanation.

'Everyone believes in something.'

'Yes, I know. In a political programme or an association. Or in their career, like my husband. Or in the nation — there's nothing particularly wrong with that, is there?'

'What made you come to our church?'

'That's a good question.'

They now turn off on to a side road. The trees here are also in bloom and Rip Hill suddenly appears in the distance. It reminds him of driving along a highway over a year ago with Rút at the wheel. The road ran from Oregon to Nevada and he had the impression that everything around him was in bloom, including some trees and bushes that were unfamiliar to him. And on the horizon in place of Rip there loomed the massive, snowy volcano of Mount Rainier as if out of a dream. It was his first trip abroad and he strove to take in every single detail of the landscape, as he did every detail of the lives of the people that he met. His sister was extremely interested in how things were in the Republic and how his status had changed, even though she did not believe in Jesus Christ, and most likely didn't even believe that he, her younger brother, could truly believe either.

He really ought to concentrate on his sermon, but the woman at his side distracts him. She is nothing like his sister, more like his first wife. They were born, he realizes, at about the same time. But the image of his first wife has become fixed and unchanging. What would she have looked like if she'd lived to be forty? She'd certainly not have used eye make-up like this one. Or would she? And she would dress more soberly. She was unassuming and even a trifle ascetic. Maybe he was too. What is the point of dressing flamboyantly? Those who care too much for the outer covering are usually trying to conceal emptiness or sterility inside.

'It was most likely fear that brought me,' she eventually answers.

'Fear of what?'

'Of what? I can't really say. One doesn't have to be afraid of anything in particular, just afraid, that's all. Of people. Or of loneliness. Of life or death. Death mostly. Even though there are days when I don't feel like living at all.'

'Fear is human, Mrs Musilová.'

'Do you think so? My husband doesn't accept it. He can't stand it when I'm not in a good mood. He believes he's the only one with any right to have the blues.'

'Have you been married long?'

'Wait a second, I'll have to work it out. It's nearly fifteen years. With Samuel, that is. My husband has a biblical name. But it's the only saintly thing about him.'

'Samuel wasn't a saint. He was a judge and a prophet in ancient Israel.'

'No doubt. I wouldn't know such things. All I meant was that my husband has a character defect. But I expect I shouldn't have said anything, it's not polite to talk about the character defects of someone you don't know and who isn't present.'

A large farm office serves as a prayer room. In front of it there is already a huddle of old women waiting, as well as two men in their Sunday best, looking with some distrust at the luxurious foreign car.

He gets out. 'Thank you very much. And don't wait for me, I'll get home somehow.'