Ivan Klima - No Saints or Angels

'I never thought it was.'

'I'll analyse you and teach you to have an opinion about yourself. You'll be surprised,' she promises and then starts to talk about her friends who, like her, are learning to understand themselves — 'and when they start to analyse themselves they suddenly end up this tiny!' and she indicates how tiny by a gap between the tips of her thumb and forefinger that a ladybird would scarcely squeeze through. Jan laughs at her, but I can recall her disobedience and stubbornness, so I have the feeling that she really is starting to get somewhere. I promise to let her explain to me how to acquire an opinion of myself.

We sit down to dinner in a fairly decent-looking pub. After lengthy consideration, Jana chooses some oriental dish with rice and some disgusting dark liquid in a narrow bottle. We also choose something and so as to show solidarity with the other two, I order

fizzy water instead of wine, for the first time in ages. But they don't notice anyway, they are having a great time together. They almost speak the same language. They like the Spice Girls and know some Varusa or Marusya May who plays the electric violin, and agree that Ms — or is it Mr — Bjôrk sings as if she or he had a mouth full of dried snot. They have even seen the same films and both despise television. Jan asks whether they play any games too, and Jana says they play chess, although she doesn't like the game, and they also play draughts and Ludo. Jan promises to come and teach them to play other games.

I look at the two of them and listen to them chatting away. They're relaxed and it's quite a different conversation from any I've ever had with Jan.

When Jan leaves the table for a moment, Jana quickly says, 'Mum, he really suits you.'

'What makes you think so?'

Well, you sort of complement each other. You're sad and he's cheerful. And you've got blue eyes and he's got brown.'

'I'm also old while he's young.'

'And you're both nuts.'

An unexpected commendation.

7

On Sunday Mum flew in like an early bird almost before it was light and we hadn't even had breakfast yet. I was surprised she came on her own, but she explained to me that Jan had had to leave the previous evening because he was going to do an interview with the radio about what happened to him. Mum said she was pleased we'd have a bit of time to ourselves. And she went to see Radek — to give me time to have breakfast in peace, she said. I'd love to hear all the guff that Radek gives her about me.

Monika started to yell from the yard that our pig had eaten my hen. The black one. 'Well, for a start, the hen isn't just mine but also ours and why shouldn't it eat it, seeing it's an omnivore,' I yelled back at her. But it was the marten anyway. All that was left of the hen that I had to look after was a few black feathers in the yard. Horrendous.

Then all of a sudden Mum appeared and looked cool so I figured that Radek must have sung my praises.

When she and I came out of our sunny Graveside, I suggested to Mum that we look in at the church.

'Do you people go to church here?'

We didn't go to church much, but the idea just occurred to me, seeing it was Sunday and Mum had come to see me. And Mum says, 'Why not? I haven't been to church for ages.'

So we went to the local church, which was fairly pathetic — almost no pictures, just some angels flying about on the ceiling chucking some poor devils out of heaven. Only heaven was full of rusty patches where water dripped from the leaky roof.

It was packed inside — at least seven old ladies and a gypsy family with a baby. In the church that Eva used to take me to sometimes I liked the singing, the ringing of bells, the incense and the servers, especially one who had great big ears. The servers here were totally normal, but the priest was ever so young and pale and really, really tiny; I bet they took the mickey out of him when he was at school. He was so touched that we'd come to his church he couldn't get over the shock and kept tripping over his words. When the singing started he sang really out of tune, but in the end you couldn't tell 'cos at least six out of the seven pensioners sang out of tune too. I quite liked the priest; I just felt sorry for him being stuck on his own in that empty church and not even being allowed to get married or have kids. And I imagined what he'd do if I came and told him I fancied him, if he'd like me to stay and keep him company.

Then he started preaching about some Saint Francis, saying he'd been really poor and humble and patient and when they

wouldn't let him into some pub or monastery when he was cold, wet and hungry he was ecstatic. I wouldn't be ecstatic about it, I was ecstatic from dope, and I'm really curious to know what I'll be ecstatic about when I get out of here, and if I'll actually manage to keep it up.

I hate preaching 'cos it's too clever-clever and a drag. So I just kept thinking about what was going to happen when I leave this place. I imagined rushing to school again every morning even though it doesn't do anything for me, and I couldn't imagine who I'd find to talk to if I never saw Ruda and the others any more, just because they're still on dope.

Then we all said Our Father who art in heaven and at that moment I thought of Dad and wondered if he was in heaven. But he didn't believe in it; he believed in the Big Bang, when there wasn't a heaven or an earth, nothing just that little marble that everything came out of. And how could the poor old guy be in heaven, seeing they'd put him in a furnace and burnt him?

It only hit me the night that Mum drove me back here after the funeral that maybe I behaved badly towards him, because I always thought it was vile the way he left us in the lurch. But maybe he didn't really want to. Sometimes Mum would really make him unhappy when she had her downers and didn't want to talk to anyone; she couldn't even work up a smile; and when she came home from the surgery she'd just sit in an armchair and smoke and drink her wine. He tried to talk it over with her and he'd do everything that needed doing at home. He'd say to her, Give us a little smile, Kristýna, but it was pointless and so in the end he ran away. And I also imagined the flames licking round him when they closed the curtains in the crematorium so we couldn't see, and all of a sudden I was so sorry for him that I started to cry. Monika woke up and when she saw I was crying she says to me, 'What are you bellowing like a cow for, you stupid cow?'

So I tell her my dad had died and they've cremated him and she immediately calms down and says, 'Oh, your old man died. Pity

we haven't got a fix.' But we didn't have anything and anyway I've decided it'll be better not to go back on it.

At the group session the next day Radek said it was good that I was sad and cried 'cos it's a way to make things up with Dad and I won't be tempted to do anything silly to spite him. And it also means I've made it up with Mum, because I hated her always thinking about Dad and blaming herself instead of accepting that that's the way life is.

Mum looked touched somehow in that church, even though she didn't sing or cross herself; but when the rest knelt down she did too and bowed her head. Mum's got a lovely head and neck. I'm not surprised that ginger bloke who's been going out with her since the spring is gone on her. I'd fancy her too. And he fancied me when we were chatting together last night; it was cool and from time to time he made eyes at me, but he always made sure Mum didn't notice.

As soon as the Mass was over we scarpered, but Mum said she was glad I'd taken her to church and that she was going to take me somewhere too and show me something. She drove me to the pond: actually it's more like a big dirty puddle and round here we know it as the Stink-hole. A footpath runs from there up a horrible steep hill. Mum must have been in a great mood or she'd have never climbed a hill like that. All the time she looked as if she was about to tell me something important, such as she was going to marry Jan, but she didn't say anything. So I just kept her amused by rabbiting on about what things are like here. Such as last week we had our first fall of snow and when I was already in bed the lads started yelling that they could see the aurora borealis outside and I must come out and see it before it disappears. So I ran out into the snow barefoot and they start taking the mick out of me like mad for falling for their crap about the aurora borealis. And I told Mum how I look after the hens and ducks, and how I'll happily go and work on a farm after Radek says I'm cured or, even better, go and help people in need — people like me, for instance,