Ivan Klima - No Saints or Angels

I gave her two hundred crowns and went back out into the hot day whose brightness blinded me.

In sudden anxiety I tried to phone Kristýna from the post office but I couldn't get through. When I met up with the others I told them I had to return to Prague by the next train. Věra no doubt thought I was running away from her, but I didn't care what she thought.

In the train my anxiety grew. I knew that someone had been sending Kristýna anonymous threats. Another possibility was that someone who was afraid to attack me directly might attack her as

a way of intimidating me. I thought of how delicate Kristýna was, or not delicate so much as vulnerable. Anyone could hurt her. There were people who, as soon as they detected someone's vulnerability, couldn't wait to hurt them.

There was a time when victims were revered as martyrs, these days it is the torturer who tends to be revered.

In Prague I called her immediately from the first call box in front of the station and asked her if everything was OK.

She said it was and was glad I hadn't forgotten about her yet. She would like to see me but she and Jana were just on their way out. She was driving her to another treatment centre a long distance from Prague. She wasn't sure whether she would manage to get back by evening. But she would definitely be home the following day. I could come there and stay with her now that she was on her own.

I asked her if I oughtn't to travel with her. She hesitated for a moment and then said it wouldn't be necessary.

I ought to have made it more obvious that she was in danger and demand that she take me with her. But I don't know whether the danger is immediate or not. As the celebrated Nostradamus put it: Quod defuturis non est determinata omnio Veritas.

I felt regret that I had come back from my holiday on her account while she seemed in no great hurry to see me, and I told her that I probably wouldn't be able to make it the next day, but that I'd definitely call her.

6

Summer is slowly drawing to a close; the lime trees in the street in front of Mum's house have already finished flowering, and autumnal melancholy has descended on me prematurely, as well as weariness. I drove Jana to that distant spot where I am not to visit her for a whole month and it wouldn't even be a good idea to write to her.

Now I could take a holiday but suddenly I don't feel like going anywhere on my own. Jan talked about us going somewhere together, but we've never even been out for the day. I have the feeling there's something on his mind; he's less communicative. He says he has lots of work on; he wants to go through as many files as possible before they kick him out of his job or he is refused access to top-secret materials. I don't try to talk him round: I'm a bit afraid of us being together all the time; he is full of vigour and I'm a tired middle-aged woman. And besides I've got used to not having a man around full time.

And yet one night it occurs to me to ask him who were the people who went to Slovakia with him and why he has told me so little about them. I ask him in exactly the same way I ask him how he spent the day, what he has read of interest lately or if he knows any new jokes. But I notice that my question doesn't please him. He wants to know why I ask.

'Because I'm interested in you, of course.'

He says hetwas there with the crowd I'd met at the game he invited me to that time. And he hasn't told me about the trip because he didn't think it made any sense to talk about travelling. It's impossible to describe nature, except in poems, and he is no poet. There is also little point in talking about people I don't know. Where something interesting happened, such as the prophecy at the fortune-tellers, he's told me everything she foretold, and since he's been back the unimportant things have already slipped out of his memory I recall him once describing to me how people with bad consciences behave when questioned by his colleagues. How they go into lengthy explanations about why they can't remember anything.

I feel a sudden anxiety. 'So that leggy girl — the one you used to go out with — she was there too then?'

He hesitates a moment before replying, as if considering what answer to give me, or even whether I know or suspect something.

Then he replies that she was there too.

It's late and time we were asleep. A little while ago we made love; he was tender to me. I ought to keep quiet and not keep asking questions. But I'm unable to dispel the anxiety that has seized me.

'She didn't even try to seduce you?' I ask.

He remains silent and then replies with a question: 'Why would she try to seduce me? "We'd broken it off, hadn't we?' He sits up and gets out of bed.

'Where are you going?'

'I'm thirsty.'

He goes off to the kitchen. I can't bear to wait. I put on my dressing gown and follow him. He is pouring wine into two glasses.

'Are you going to have some wine with me?'

'Yes, I feel like some.'

'But you still haven't answered my question.'

'I don't understand why you want to know now, all of a sudden.'

'Now or some other time.'

'But I asked you at the time whether you'd like to come with me,' he reminds me.

'But I wasn't able to. You wanted me to go with you to protect you from your ex-girlfriend?' It dawns on me.

'I don't need protecting. I love you, don't I. That's why I wanted you to come with me.'

He is still avoiding the question.

'But it was night, everyone around was asleep, and she crept into your tent,' I answer for him.

I can see I have rattled him. 'If she's called you and put ideas in your head, don't believe her.'

'She hasn't called me,' I say. 'Nobody has put ideas in my head. It's how I imagine it. If it didn't happen, you'd have told me long ago that she went with you too.'

He says nothing; he doesn't try to contradict me. He admits nothing and denies nothing. He's not a liar and he doesn't know how to be faithful, just like every other man.

'There you are,' I say. 'I don't need a fortune-teller to tell me what happened and what danger I'm in.'

'I love you,' he tells me. 'I didn't stop loving you for a moment.'

'Not even when the other one was in your arms?'

He says nothing. Then he tries to explain it to me: they were going out for almost two years. He didn't want to hurt her. And anyway he hurt her because he told her he didn't want to have anything to do with her any more.

'Because now you've got me.' I complete his thought. 'You don't need to explain anything to me. I'm glad you have consideration for your old girlfriend. It means I can hope you'll show me the same consideration.'

He repeats that he loves me and has never loved anyone else. He tries to explain to me that there are situations when you do something ypu didn't intend to, and you are immediately sorry. He asks me to understand that.

I tell him I am able to have understanding for anything — life had taught me that. But that doesn't mean I can accept everything and come to terms with it. I hate betrayal. I once got divorced on account of it and deprived Jana of a home with a father.

He asks me in umbrage whether he ought to kneel down and ask my forgiveness.

I tell him that I don't like fellows who kneel, and I like even less those who ask if they ought to.

I have the feeling my little boy is at a loss — whether to be offended or to burst into tears. He's not a liar and he doesn't know how to be faithful. Most likely he is regretting that he didn't lie. But he'll soon learn how. Maybe I should be pleased that he doesn't yet know how to lie, but at this moment all I feel is disappointment — and weariness.

'Kristýna,' he begs, 'nothing happened, nothing of any importance. Surely you'll forgive me.'