Ivan Klima - No Saints or Angels

'It won't be just for a moment.'

'Everything is just for a moment. We are all of us here only for a moment.' I don't say that according to my husband we're only here for two blinks of God's eye, then the sea of cosmic time closes over us and we can't even hear its murmur.

'I'd like to spend a lifetime with you.'

'Mine or yours?'

'Ours.'

'But I'll die before you. I'm old.'

He tries to convince me that I'm not old, and anyway none of us knows when we'll die. He then asks me a surprising question: 'Are you in love with anyone?'

'Yes: with you, of course.'

'With someone else, I mean.'

'How can you ask me like that? I wouldn't be here with you otherwise, would I?'

'Forgive me. But you were in love?'

'That's ages ago.'

'Your husband. .'

'Don't talk about him now.'

He goes on caressing me. I rest my head on his chest. It's covered in almost invisibly fine blond hairs — my husband's was covered in a thick, dark growth. I used to tell him he was like a chimpanzee. He hurt me. People mostly hurt those nearest to them, and I fear that this boy will hurt me too one day. I wish I could tell him so, beg him not to hurt me!

I feel like crying. 'Look at me.'

'But I am looking at you.'

'Why don't you say anything to me?'

'I don't want to say the things people always say.'

'But I want to hear them.'

'It's lovely to be with you.'

'You don't regret it?'

I want him to say he loves me, that my age doesn't bother him, that he really doesn't find me old. But his thoughts are elsewhere; he's thinking about how to make love to me again. But it's time I went. It's starting to get dark outside and I have a daughter at home. That's if she's at home and didn't make herself scarce when she discovered her mother was enjoying herself somewhere. He asks, 'What do you fear most in life?'

'Betrayal,' I say; I don't have to think twice.

'No, I meant whether you fear something in particular.'

'Fire, I expect,' I said.

'That's because you're a Pisces.'

'I saw someone on fire,' I tell him. 'It was my aunt. She set herself alight. But I don't want to think about it now. I'd just like to light a cigarette. May I?'

He gets up and runs naked to fetch me an ashtray. At that moment he reminds me of my first love of long ago: the same narrow shoulders. I was in love with Psycho in those days, madly. I wonder if anything like that will ever happen to me again.

He returns. This household does not own such a thing as an ashtray, so he thrusts some kind of saucer at me instead. He asks whether I'm thirsty.

He has narrow wrists; in fact his arms are almost girlish, like my daughter's. Suddenly I see her arm and also the syringe, the needle she punctures it with; my little girl is out gallivanting somewhere while I selfishly lie here having a smoke in a strange bedroom on a strange couch.

'A penny for your thoughts,' he says.

'I have to go.'

'Don't go yet.'

'I have to, my daughter's waiting for me.' I gather up my clothes and make for the bathroom, which is also unfamiliar. There is nothing here of mine; I don't even know which is the hot tap.

'I'll bring you a clean towel,' he calls after me. Then he opens the door a chink and puts a towel into my outstretched hand. I'm glad he didn't have it here ready; he wasn't sure I'd ever come in here.

I have a quick shower and get dressed. I put on a bit of eye make-up. Heavens, what am I doing here?

The roses he bought me are standing in a vase. This time they are red. I take them with me.

He sees me to the metro station. He wants to descend to the depths with me but I tell him he'd better not.

OK, he'll be waiting for me again tomorrow.

'But I've got a long surgery tomorrow.'

'I know.'

'How could you know?'

'I read it on the surgery door.'

'Don't come, I have to be at home in the evening. Because of my daughter.'

'You weren't home this evening.'

'That's the point.'

'And what if I went home with you?'

I can't bring this boy home, can I? Unless I said, Jana, I've brought you a new friend: his name is Jan; he's going to give you some coaching. In what? Everything. The trouble is it's too late for coaching.

He doesn't ask me why I don't want to invite him. He'll wait for me the day after tomorrow, then. He gives me a hug and a quick kiss.

'Thank you,' I say.

'For what?'

'For everything. And these roses.'

On the steps I turn and look back: he's still standing and waving me goodbye. Why didn't I make up my mind to stay there till morning? I could have called Jana; I could have told her I'd be coming a bit later and sent her to bed. No, next time, maybe. It'll be better next time: if there'll be a next time.

I tremble at the thought I might never see him again. It will all end one day; the question is how many days are left before it does. If we didn't anticipate the end how could we value what we still have left?

I unlock the street door and check my mailbox. One letter from goodness knows who, the Journal of the Stomatological Association and — the handwriting gives it away — a letter from my anonymous correspondent. I ought to tear it up and chuck it in the dustbin. But the dustbin is in front of the house and I don't feel like going out again. This time Mr Anon doesn't call me names, he just issues threats. He warns me not to venture outdoors in the evening because the Hour of Reckoning is Nigh.

I venture out, nevertheless, in order to open the stinking dustbin, tear up the letter and toss the pieces into the rotting garbage.

7

I had to go and see Dad and make him those pancakes, seeing I'd blabbed about them to Mum. That was a fantastic performance. I really managed to tug her heartstrings. The thought of me taking care of my poor ailing dad, who left us in the shit. I haven't been to see him for at least a month. The last time was in hospital with Mum.

It took me a long time to find some clobber to put on, 'cos when I'm visiting Dad I have to wear something that wouldn't be an affront to decent people. The trouble is I didn't have anything that wouldn't make Dad go spare. If I put on some ordinary Levis he'd start going on about the cost of them and telling me not to buy things like that when I'm not earning and he has to pay maintenance for me. But my old jeans had three ginormous holes in them and I was afraid he wouldn't survive the shock. In the end I got out an old dress I made myself when I was about twelve. It was impossibly crude and the colour of dog shit, in fact it looked

like an upside-down trash can without a bottom, but it wouldn't be an affront to decent people.

Dad was the last person I fancied seeing.

I never liked visiting him even when I was forced to every week, which was something they dreamt up at some stupid court or other. Dad was fairly OK when he was living with us. I remember him calling me Jankie-pankie and bringing me Mole colouring books. And he'd tell me how we'd fly to Mars in a rocket ship. I thought he was talking about the chocolate bar. Why not if the moon can be made of cheese?

Dad said he learnt tidiness when he was doing military service. And he was really proud of being better at folding his blankets and clothes than any of the other cretins. He'd really knock me out when he demonstrated to me how to stack clothes.

And he used to take me to the planetarium and the observatory. He had some pals there. Stars were his big thing. Most of all he wanted to shock me with Saturn's rings, the moons around Jupiter, the black holes and the Big Bang. He loved the Big Bang 'cos that's how everything is supposed to have started. He used to tell me how in the beginning all there was was a tiny little marble, smaller than a tomato but ever so heavy 'cos it contained all the stars we can see and even those we can't. A real pain. And that poor guy believed it and I bet he even told those morons in his school about it. And they'd have to repeat it after him: the stars we can see and even those we can't. That was his favourite: repeat after me. Repeat after me: I am not to laugh at the teachers! Repeat after me: before dinner well-mannered people wash their hands! Repeat after me: only louts fail to greet older people! And I used to repeat it otherwise I'd immediately get a clout and ever since then I've hated washing my hands and now and again I shout to some poor old pensioner: Ciao! or Hi!