Ivan Klima - No Saints or Angels

I gazed at him, Dad's unacknowledged son, as he examined these static faces and I waited for some movement from his thin, severe lips. But my brother said nothing and returned me the final photo.

'So that's what he looked like,' I said. 'You needn't regret not knowing him. Life with him wasn't easy.'

'I can well imagine.'

'He left his mark on all of us. And lots of others too. You're not the only one he wronged.'

My brother finished his toddy and nodded. 'He hurt my mother most of all. But that's the way it goes: people hurt each other; that's something I discovered. It's a sort of chain reaction. You hurt me, so I'll hurt you back,' he said, sharing his personal philosophy with me. 'The people who don't are the ones who get hurt most.'

I recalled how he'd tried to hurt me, but since the day I visited him he hadn't sent me any threatening letters. It's easiest to hurt those we've never seen, although we most often hurt those who are nearest to us. But it isn't a chain reaction of tit for tat, simply the result of our selfishness, an expression of our bewilderment in the face of life.

The lady who brought my brother rang the downstairs bell. She refused to come up and asked me to wheel my brother into the lift; she'd be waiting for him downstairs.

I thanked him once more for the painting and for paying me a visit. When I opened the lift door for him, I leaned over and kissed him on the lips. His breath smelled of rum, but even so it reminded me of Dad's, although I couldn't recall when my father last kissed me.

5

I went back home to Mum's last week. Mum behaved triumphantly although she had no reason to. I hadn't come to eat humble pie, I simply had nowhere else to live. I had moved a few of my things to Jirka's and slept there for almost a month, but I knew it was no solution. I had hoped against hope that Kristýna would forgive me and I would move into her place, but when I saw how hesitant she was, I realized that that was no solution either. And I don't earn enough to rent a flat of my own.

Kristýna and I have met a few times and had dinner together: once it was a cold supper at her place, and on about three other occasions I invited her out to restaurants. Since the night I admitted to her that Věra came into my tent we haven't made love. I don't think it's just on account of my one stupid moment of vacillation. Kristýna seems to have changed; she seems to have lost the enthusiasm she once showed for everything, and which attracted me to her in the first place. She keeps on repeating that she is tired. I told her she needed to take it easy and take a holiday, but she said it was world-weariness and no holiday would rid her of it.

She ought to realize that it is weariness due to the sort of life she leads.

Not long ago we were walking up some stairs together and I noticed how breathless she was. 'Don't be surprised,' she told me. 'My lungs are full of tar.' She also drinks more than she should. When I was still sleeping at her place from time to time, she would pour herself a glass of wine first thing in the morning. No wonder she's tired.

I still pine for her, but our occasional meetings haven't seemed to be getting anywhere; they have lacked any climax: we don't embrace; we talk but we no longer touch each other, not even verbally. We are becoming cooler to each other, or at least I am, although I regret it.

Today was Friday the thirteenth; I went to work fearing the worst. My fears were vindicated. First thing this morning our new director called me in and told me they would have to dispense with my services. He had received an order to reduce staff levels and I was the youngest. I wouldn't be the only one anyway, so it would be a good idea to come to a gentleman's agreement before he drew up a dismissal notice.

As if youth could be a reason for dismissal anyway We both know the real reason, of course. I had tried too hard to do my job properly and unravel what could be unravelled.

I told him I'd have to think it over, but I don't think I feel like resigning voluntarily and going quietly. As I was saying it to him, I knew that on principle I wouldn't give in, even though I have no longing to spend the rest of my life in the place.

As soon as I left the director's office I got on the phone to Jirka at the radio.

He promised to send one of his female colleagues over to see me. She is apparently the most astute member of their political staff.

She called me straight after lunch.

We arranged to meet at five o'clock this evening at a restaurant near the radio building.

She was younger than she had sounded on the phone and her face seemed slightly familiar. I told her so as soon as we sat down in the restaurant and asked her whether she didn't also appear on television.

'No,' she said, 'you know me from somewhere else. If you remember, that time in November, nine years ago, we were both sent to Ostrava to win over the miners.'

Of course I remembered. But there were quite a few of us in the group, so we didn't really notice each other. I started to apologize for not recognizing her.

'But it's ages ago. I also have different-coloured hair, a different hairstyle, and I'm fatter and older.'

I told her the colour of her hair suited her, that she wasn't at all fat and she didn't look a day over twenty.

'You're a real gentleman,' she said and smiled at me as if I were an old friend from the good old days.

I was glad we had previously met under those circumstances; I felt I could be more open with her than if they had sent any old member of staff.

I tried to fill her in briefly on the job I am doing and explain that there must be a lot of people who would sooner I stopped delving into their pasts and revealing their past crimes.

She took notes and told me they would definitely invite me to the studio next week to take part in a interview about this business, although she was doubtful that it would help me keep my job. The opposite most likely.

'I'm not worried about my job. I always enjoy a change.'

'So do I,' she said. 'Life would be boring otherwise.'

So we started to chat about our lives since. She was surprised I was still single; she had already managed to get married and divorced.

Our conversation started to stray beyond the usual bounds of discretion. She complained about her bad experiences with men, whom she found selfish and boorish, while I spoke about the anxiety I feel about emptiness, which undermines my ability to get really close to people. I didn't mention Kristýna.

For the first time in ages I could hear the rumble of tom-toms in the distance and it set my blood racing. Several times during our conversation my hand touched hers and she didn't move hers away.

It occurred to me to ask her if there might be a job for me in the radio, in case I really was dismissed; I told her I wasn't an absolute beginner and had earned extra cash by writing articles on the side.

She was sure I'd find something there: she told me the radio was an enormous funnel for collecting people. It wasn't hard to get

in but it was hard to find a niche. She added that it would be nice if we were to become colleagues. She stood up; she unfortunately had a rendezvous to go to.

The mention of a rendezvous aroused an almost jealous curiosity in me, but all I said was that we would definitely see each other soon.

She asked for my telephone number and gave me hers, at work and also at home, in case I didn't catch her at the radio. She told me she was looking forward to meeting me again, so it was fine that we'd see each other the following week.

Most likely she says something similar to everyone she is about to make a programme with, but I was sure she also expected something more from our coming meeting than just an interview, so her comment thrilled me as if we'd just made a date.