Ivan Klima - No Saints or Angels

Mum didn't have to repeat things after him, but even so she was more scared of Dad than I was. If she was a quarter of an hour late with lunch on a Sunday, Dad would look at his watch and say the

time out loud. 'It's five past twelve. . it's ten past twelve' and on and on. And Mum would apologize and be full of excuses, such as the meat was tough, instead of telling him to get lost or go to the pub.

Dad also explained to me that everything we can see, as well as what we can't see, just happened. It wasn't created by some god, 'cos he'd have to be so big he wouldn't fit into heaven and he'd have to be so incredibly old that he wouldn't be even able to survive it himself. I didn't understand that bit anyway. Sometimes I used to go to church with Mum's Eva. I quite enjoyed it, especially the singing and the saints with their eyes rolled upwards as if they'd been chewing loads of dope or had seen something that totally knocked them out. Maybe they were looking at the tiny little marble that made the Big Bang. And also I didn't understand why angels needed to have wings like geese or swans, when they could fly just like that, like when I dream about flying; that's why they're angels, after all. There was also a ginger-haired server I fancied.

Whenever we went out for the day, Dad always used to be testing our knowledge of flowers and trees and songbirds, not to mention the battles that were fought in that particular spot. That's a pasqueflower, that's an alpine currant, that's a cinquefoil and that's a wood warbler. Can you hear it singing tweet-tweet? Well I certainly couldn't hear it, but Mum made an effort and said, 'Oh, yes, tweet-tweet. You're great, Karel. How do you manage to remember all those things?' And I think she might have really meant it. And he believed her, 'cos the next thing he said was, 'Well you had to memorize the human anatomy.' Horrendous.

Mum was really nuts about him. I realized that, and even though he looked old enough to be her father she must have really loved him 'cos she still thinks about him all the time even though she pretends she couldn't give a toss about him. She really takes it to heart that he's in such a bad way.

Then when I was at least in third year they started to fight like total loonies. They'd always shut themselves in the bedroom or the kitchen and yell at each other as if I couldn't hear. At first I thought it was because of me, because Dad thought I was disobedient, untidy and lazy and that I would come to a sticky end, but then Dad stopped coming home in time for dinner and soon he didn't come home at all; and Mum would sit with the TV on and cry her eyes out, even when Camera Capers was on. I'd wake up sometimes in the night and she'd be sitting in the kitchen reading or just staring at the wall and I realized they'd probably get divorced.

Dad moved in with some bird who worked in a bank. She was tall and lanky and totally flat-chested. She had really ugly teeth, a bit like a vampire; perhaps she was one, 'cos Dad became really ill and whenever she said anything to me it was obvious that she was totally brain-dead. I don't know what Dad saw in her; maybe he just ran away from me because I started to get bolshie. And he also caught me with a ciggie, but they were already getting divorced by then anyway

Dad has the sort of eyes that put fear into people. He can stand and look at someone for ages without blinking. I never knew why he stared like that. I just knew he wasn't pleased with me and that I'd done something wrong and I could expect some punishment. He was a real genius at dreaming up punishments. If I didn't finish my lunch, for instance, Mum would have to cook me the same thing for the rest of the week. One time I didn't want to wear this vile flowery frock that Grandma must have found on a rubbish tip somewhere or dug out of Auntie Lida's things. Mum split on me so Dad gave me a good hiding and then I had to wear that frock to school every day until I managed to pour some tomato soup with noodles down the front of it in the school canteen.

When he left us, he wasn't able to punish me any more. I expect he didn't feel like it any more; he wasn't bothered, he was already soppy about his beanpole. He just kept on trying to

explain that it wasn't his fault but Mum's 'cos she hadn't looked after him properly and was always having those black moods of hers that he just couldn't cope with. And on top of that she smoked. He told me he needed a bit of peace, fresh air and some enjoyment out of life. And at least a hint of attention. We both needed it, he explained, but my mother would often leave us in the lurch and go off with some pals after surgery instead of coming home. Apparently he used to have to cook me something for dinner at the last minute, but I was too young to remember, according to him. He said Mum had no sense of order and he couldn't understand how someone like that could repair people's teeth properly. Apart from that their interests were completely different. Mum didn't even enjoy tennis or skiing — surely I must have noticed how she was like an elephant on skis — and she wasn't interested in history. He's told me loads of times that it wasn't a home but a place of weeping and wailing. 'Her hysteria even started to rub off on me and you were being affected too. In fact you're going to spend your life trying to recover from it.'

At first I used to try to say something interesting. I even told him I missed him. But then I realized he'd been really vile to Mum and me and I'd try to do a bunk as soon as I could. That beanpole left him last year too. It struck me he might come back to us, but he didn't.

So now he's been ill. Mum reckons he's in a bad way. He doesn't stare as much as he used to, but he still scares me. That's why I dolled myself up like Pippie Longstocking and didn't put any eyeliner round my puffy eyes. I was so sober I almost staggered climbing the stairs up to his flat; I was chewing some mint gum so he wouldn't know I'd had a last ciggie in front of the house.

I hadn't bought him any roses or even stolen any for him in the park. Why should I?

'Hi, Dad,' I said when he opened the door. 'I've come to make you pancakes.'

1

I won't be with my daughter this evening anyway. Lucie called me this afternoon to say she's just back from the other side of the globe and wants to see me.

I call Jana, who is surprisingly at home, and mention warily that I'll be home a bit later this evening. She wants to know where I'm going but I don't go into details; I simply tell her to get on with her maths homework and warn her that I'll test her when I come in.

I have a rendezvous with Lucie at a wine restaurant just below the Castle. It's an expensive place, but Lady Bountiful is treating me. She's tanned because she's spent almost a month in California and seen the Pacific Ocean, which I'll never see. She says it's so cold that in those hot regions a cloud of mist rises from the surface and covers the sea and the shore. She takes a box of photographs out of the shoulder bag she always carries. They really do show houses and even the Golden Gate Bridge emerging in fairytale fashion out of the mist. The suspension cables of the bridge glisten with drops of condensed water like the threads of some monstrous spider's web. My friend has also been in the desert and warmed herself up at the hottest spot on the planet; she has brought back for her own benefit and mine pictures of coloured rocks and flowers that brighten the dunes for a single day and then perish in the heat. There are also photos of giant cacti, but they are from the botanical gardens at Berkeley, which I'll never see either.

I ask her what sort of a time she has had.

Fantastic. It's a fantastic country for a short stay, because of the entertainment. That's something that people there definitely worship more than what they go to church for, and entertainers have the best-paid jobs.