Ivan Klima - No Saints or Angels

His interest surprises me. But it's true that my ex-husband was capable of arousing people's admiration — and even love, as I myself discovered to my cost.

I am standing with this young fellow out here on the pavement, though I have no reason to. Then he says, 'The thing is that I wanted to see you again.'

I don't say, Well, you're seeing me. I don't know how to reply. But I don't intend to stand here on the pavement with him, and for the time being it's inappropriate for me to invite him in. I notice the words 'for the time being' form themselves in my mind.

'If you happen to have a few moments to spare, I noticed there was a bistro round the corner. Maybe I could invite you for a drink. .

'I've been thinking of you ever since,' he adds.

2

My darling daughter turned up in time for supper. A new chain around her waist — new, that is, for her; otherwise it's covered in bits of rust. Goodness knows what animal she stole it from. A new hole in her jeans at knee level. Black platforms, the highest she could buy. For a long time I held out against those

dreadful clodhoppers, refusing the demagogic pressure that all the girls have them now, but in the end I gave in and gave her the two thousand crowns — mostly, I expect, because when I was her age my father didn't even allow me jeans and I wasn't permitted to use lipstick. My approved footwear was fit for an elderly collective farmer. And she's even worse off than I was. She has lost half her home because I wasn't able to hold on to it for her. Let her have some enjoyment at least, I tell myself, although I know full well that no manner of rags, clodhoppers or chains will make up for her loss. And it would be wrong if they did.

'Jana, where have you been for so long?'

'At Dad's, haven't I?'

'You went to see your dad? Why didn't you let me know?'

'It was your idea, wasn't it?'

'You went to see him dolled up like that?'

'Of course.'

'What did he say about your platforms?'

'He made me take them off.'

'And you spent the whole afternoon at your dad's?'

'I went and did some shopping for him.'

'That was good of you. How is he?'

'But you know anyway, Mum. He's got awfully thin and his hands shake. I told him I'd make him some pancakes. And he said, Go ahead. And then he only managed to eat one of them. And instead of those endless lectures he always used to give me, he just sat and looked at me without saying anything.'

My daughter sits and tells me about it while munching the bread and cheese I put in front of her. It doesn't look as if her father's suffering has spoilt her appetite.

And now to change the subject: 'I was in school today,' I announce.

'Jesus Christ.'

'Not only are you about to flunk your leaving exam, but you play truant and forge my signature.'

'Did you drop me in it?'

I say nothing.

'Mum, you're a gem. But when I wrote those excuse notes, I used the proper terminology. I found the Latin names in your manual.'

For God's sake, she's proud of what a great forger she is. 'That's going to stop. I'll call the school at least once a week to make sure you're there. And if you're off traipsing around somewhere, I'll call the police and have them find you. Where do you hang out, in fact, when you're not in school?'

'It's hard to say, Mum. When it's lovely out, it really is an awful bore to sit in class.'

'So where do you sit instead?'

'In a park, for instance.'

'A park?'

'Yeah. Grôbe Gardens or Rieger Park.'

'And the pub?'

'Hardly ever.'

'Who with?'

'What do you mean?' she says, playing for time.

'You hardly sit in a pub on your own!'

'I was only twice in a pub.'

'Or three times.'

She looks at me and shrugs. 'Mum, I really don't keep count. It's not important, is it?'

'Don't try telling me what's important. What do you drink there?'

'I dunno. Cola.'

'Jana. Don't lie to me, at least.'

'No, honestly, Mum!'

'You haven't told me yet who you loaf about with.'

'I don't loaf about!'

'So what is it you're doing, then?'

Most likely she's about to explain to me that it's life, or tell

me what life isn't about, but she stops herself in time and just shrugs.

'Well, do you mind telling me who you sit around with?'

'It depends.'

'Are they all girls or are there boys too?'

'Girls mostly.'

'But boys too.'

'Very, very rarely.'

'Older?'

'How am I supposed to know? They're all thick, anyway.'

'Why do you hang around with them then?'

'It's them who come creeping after us.'

'What do you smoke?'

'How do you mean?'

'I'm asking you what you smoke.'

'But we don't smoke.'

'Don't lie to me, Jana.'

Well, I've had a drag now and then. But then you smoke too. And how. Dad's always going on about you getting kippered lungs.'

'There's a difference between us. Between me and you, I mean.'

'I'm not saying anything, am I? But Dad never smoked.'

'Don't go dragging your dad into this. Have you tried grass?'

'What grass?'

'Jana, don't try it on me. If you'd said no, I might have believed you, but I'm hardly going to believe you've never heard of it.'

'Oh right, you mean hash.' She hesitates.

'How many times?'

'But Mum, cannabis is less dangerous than your fags.'

'Jana, stop lecturing me all the time and stand up!'

She stands up.

'Take off your T-shirt and come here.'

She adopts a hurt expression, but takes off her T-shirt and stands in front of me. She doesn't wear a bra. She has my breasts, but they are still firm, like two bells.

'Show me your arms.' I examine them as best I can. Her skin is smooth, clean and fresh, without any traces of injections. Thank God. 'Jana,' I say, 'what makes you do these things?'

'I don't do anything bad, do I?'

'No, you do nothing at all.'

'School's boring.'

'And what isn't?'

'I dunno. Sitting in the park with the girls.'

'But you can't spend all your time sitting in the park.'

'I don't know, really'

'Each of us has certain duties. And you're supposed to be studying. Enough to scrape through, at least.'

She shakes her head. 'But there's just no point in it.'

'In what?'

'In anything,' she says. 'But you know, anyway.'

'What do I know?'

'Grandpa died and look at the state Dad's in. What's the point of it?'

'Grandpa was old and your dad neglected a tumour.'

'I don't want to be old. And I don't want to get a tumour.'

'Nor do any of us. Well, how do you see your life, then?' I ask her — I who, at her age, had no wish to live at all.

3

I wake up feeling that I must have shouted something. But the dream wasn't about my daughter. It was my father who appeared to me. He was clinging on to my ex-husband and yelling at me: What have you done? You've driven him out. You're a rotten daughter and a lousy wife.

I got a fright because he'd no business to be there; he was dead; he'd died, was burnt in a furnace, descended into hell and on the third day he didn't rise from the dead; but now he stood

before me, untouched by the flames, my accuser, and meanwhile that hypocrite my ex-husband had a smirk on his face. I reached out as if to push my accuser back into the flames and started to scream in horror.

I stare into the darkness and shiver all over. I shudder again and again from fear. I get up and go into the kitchen, where I pour myself half a glass of wine. I fill the rest of the glass with water and return to the bedroom. I leave the light on. I'm afraid of the dark.

When I was a little girl — how old could I have been? scarcely five or six — my parents used to send me to Lipová to spend the summer at Grannie Marie's. Usually I'd spend the whole of September there too. I adored my grandmother. She rode horses and sang me songs. On Saturdays she baked kolaches and bread. She made her own noodles too. And she also liked a smoke.