Ivan Klima - Lovers for a Day

1

A bright violet flash. She half opened her eyes at the light. A storm, she realized, an early morning storm. The windows rattled slightly. She was gripped by anxiety. I ought to run to Mummy for shelter, it automatically occurred to her, but I can't do that any more. It's been ages since I could! She shut her eyes tightly, and strangely that feeling from the time when she could still run for shelter came back to her, that feeling of reassurance. Maybe it was because of the storm, or because she was close to dreaming, or because it hadn't really been so long since she used to run to her mother.

The feeling was so strong that she actually reached out into the empty space beside her and thought she was touching a hand and hearing quiet breathing. Having started with a storm, what sort of day would it turn out to be?

When she awakes for the second time, it feels like full morning already. She can feel the warmth on her eyelids and the sound of an argument comes through the wall.

She pads across the parquet in her bare feet: her toes sense the morning and how the day stands — it's my free day — and once more there is the twinge of realization that she no longer knows what to blame him on or where to go to avoid him. But why should I avoid him? I simply won't think about him. After all, it was what I wanted too. We weren't a good match anyway — even if he hadn't done what he did.

Even so she can't stop feeling sorry for herself. How could he have done it? How could he have deceived her when she loved him and he said he loved her too? I could never have done it.

Love, she reflects, true love, is unbreakable. It is complete and everlasting, even though I may never ever know it: not everyone is destined to experience true love. And she feels a sudden pang of regret. Just outside the window drops of water glisten on the dry branch which reminds her of an owl. You think I'll never know it, that nothing like that happens these days, but I'll bide my time, and then one morning like this one he'll lean over me, my beloved, and put his hand here, right here, and he'll be here at my side, all of him, and his warmth will enfold me.

And she feels lonely, very lonely. There is nothing else she need think about and she is utterly dejected. When she has dressed she quietly climbs the narrow winding staircase that emerges in front of a low door underneath the rafters. Here there is a room she can escape to. It's not even a proper room. It used to be just a mansard: it has a sloping roof and a small, high window, starting at neck level and ending at the height of her forehead. The room contains nothing but childhood junk, a tin washbasin to bring water from the passage, and a cupboard, an ironing board with a hole burnt in the cover, a rocking chair and a great big ball of blue twine — not of hemp, let alone paper, but of some synthetic material: twine for tying up parcels and battered suitcases, as well as for hanging washing, and those in despair. It now hangs on a nail and its free end swings to and fro almost imperceptibly, rather scarily in this room with the door and window closed. But it calms her to sit in the rocking chair watching the world see-saw up and down.

It's still the early morning and the sun shines in her eyes; above it the heavens with two clouds that sail slowly past. A shoreless lake with boats sinking, a blue desert with a caravan of white elephants. I can sail and wander. In the complete silence she can hear the sand noiselessly piling up into blue dunes, and slowly, like a mirage, the outline of the first tower emerges, and a chimney thrusting skywards and an enormous plinth for an enormous statue, with no statue, that marvellous landmark; and lower and lower, below the roofs — this is my city — down to the river, and above the river coloured prisms with cellophane and trams (chipped thermos flasks), motor cars and converging dots just moving — those are people — if I were to go down there I'd be like them and maybe someone would be glad and say, Stay here now, don't go back. No thank you, I'm happy here. This is where I'm happiest of all. Here I'm all alone when I feel like it and I won't be if I don't feel like it. And up again: the owl-shaped branch again, and higher and higher up to the outline of the last tower and the chimney thrusting skywards. It's still early morning and the sun is rising. The day had such a pallid start — but now, now it's like a tree growing out of the damp earth, like a field, like a roof facing away from the city. She would like to do something: I have to do something on a day like this. I'll put on that white pleated skirt and then I could go for a swim — with Markéta probably — or just go off somewhere, go and thumb a lift from the last tram stop, all on my own — why not, someone's bound to stop and give me a lift somewhere. And maybe he'll be young and afterwards he'll say, Actually I'm not going anywhere, it was just a whim this morning. And I'll reply, It wasn't just your whim, it was mine as well. Except that it'll turn out to be some dreary married man instead. But that doesn't matter, I'll get dropped off somewhere where there are some rocks and climb up them. And then when I get to the top, it'll be like it used to be with us, only I'll He down in the warm clovery grass all by myself, far from any path, and wait.

And she quietly slips out of the room that is more like a mansard and in which only the end of the ball of twine will now swing to and fro almost imperceptibly behind the closed window and the closed door.

2

Heading for the tram in her white pleated skirt and green blouse she has to pass the old dump with beware falling masonry and two hideous angels over the door. She hesitates briefly and then walks in past the one-armed watchman. I oughtn't to really, I'll end up bumping into that old so-and-so of hers I'm not supposed to know about, though these days she doesn't make too much of an effort to conceal it. Poor Mum with that bald fat old slob. She knocks on the door and then opens it. From within emerges the confused din of typewriters

with the pale blue glow of the strip-lighting and the stench of cigarettes and cheap coffee. But she stays outside.

'What did you want, Kateřina?'

'Nothing in particular.'

Sallow cheeks, pouches under her eyes, lipstick meticulously applied — everything about her is meticulous, in fact. Her hair recently dyed black. She's still trying to be attractive.

'I'm going out for the day, Mum.'

'Who with?'

'On my own, Mum!'

'Fibber!'

'No, really on my own. Don't worry.'

She looks round and steps away from the door slightly. 'You're telling me fibs again. Why do you have to as well?'

'I'm not fibbing. We've broken up.'

'Well take good care of yourself

'Why don't you believe me?'

'Don't cause me grief, Kateřina.'

The door opens. The witch with the coffee pot lets out some of the pale blue light and typewriter din. Is that you, Kateřina — how are you — fine thanks — it suits you, every inch the young lady, where did you buy the skirt, and you're bigger than your Mum, come on show me, you really are — it's my hair that does it, I tease it.

'You're not up to something are you, Kateřina?'

'No, I'm not, really Mum.'

She has powdered the wrinkles round her eyes — for that slob, but what's she supposed to do, now that Daddy avoids her? 'No, really, Mum. It's lovely out.'

'What's up, Kateřina? You're being distant, somehow. Don't stay out late.'

'No, I won't.'

She says goodbye to the one-armed watchman. Outside it is bright and sunny and oddly deserted. The rush hour is over. He's probably just getting up. They get up late in student residences. If only I'd been able to study too. I'd have enjoyed it: preferably biology or literature. But those two would have had to keep me for the four years and 'where would they have found the money, those penniless pen-pushers? He has to pay for his tart and she has to keep her slob, if she's going to have any fun any more — I'd sooner hang myself. No thermos flask anywhere, I'll make a phone call while I'm waiting.