Ivan Klima - Waiting for the Dark, Waiting for the Light

'Was that when you were in university?' asked Sokol.

'In university, before university and after university. Sometimes it was better and sometimes it was worse, but it was never easy. When we were children'—the old man's eyes now had a distant look—'we used to go barefoot most of the year, except in winter. On mornings when the dew fell, it was bitterly cold. But no one wants to hear about that any more. When I finally got a pair of shoes, they were hand-me-downs from my sisters,' he went on, giving in to the flow of memories, 'but I could only wear them on Sundays for church.' He stopped, as though he were suddenly afraid he had said too much.

At last the old man was talking about himself, but, unfortunately, not on camera. Had he spoken about his childhood for the record, Pavel could then have added

footage of his native village, dug up some snapshots of his parents who were only simple labourers — that is if the president hadn't falsified his biography to fit the legend of a leader who had emerged from the bosom of the people to serve the people. His mother had died when he was a baby, and by his own account he had not had an easy childhood.

'All the same, those years were better than what came afterwards. The comrades were still true to the very core and wouldn't betray each other even under torture. And my first wife was still alive.' His voice had taken on a tone of regret, and he quickly reached for a glass to conceal the fact. 'But then everything changed. I found myself in the clutches of the executioner, and he was working round the clock. The worst of it was that our own people turned me in, turned the best of us over to him. At least, they pretended to be our people. They were all protestations of loyalty, but their knives were out. I wrote letters proving my innocence. They didn't reply. I demanded that they at least produce witnesses, but they never materialized. The executioners came up with a punishment for me: six years in solitary confinement with no news of the world, no visits from my family. Six years when the only faces I saw were their faces, executioners' faces. And where do you think these people are now?' He took another drink. 'They say they are restructuring things for the better,' he said, suddenly animated, 'but all they will accomplish is to tear down what is still hanging together — not entirely, but somewhat. And when they've torn it down they'll try to shift the blame on to me. That's how it has always been done. But a time will come when they will say, "The good was buried with his bones.'" He laughed drily, then added, 'The torture we withstood! Money will destroy us. They are selling out everything to get it: ideas and each other.'

When people said 'they,' they usually meant those in power. Who did the head of state include in this little word? Those who were under him. Those who surrounded him. Everyone else.

Again the waiter appeared with his tray. The president shook his head, the waiter held the tray out to them, but

they too refused, not daring to take another glass when their host was no longer drinking.

'Don't forget to send me the film as soon as it's ready,' the president said. 'Not that I want to censor you, but you know how it is. At my age I might not live long enough to see it.'

'I'll do that,' Sokol promised.

The president stood up. The informal audience was over. Pavel hadn't used it to any advantage. Perhaps it could not have been used to any advantage anyway, because life and power only appeared to reside in such places. Where did they really reside?

He wasn't certain of the answer. And the thought disturbed him.

FILM

I

A wedding party streams out of the main entrance of the town hall. A tall man with a camera steps out in front of them. He has to crouch slightly to get them all in his viewfinder. That is if he wants to get the rest of the square in the picture as well. Further down, a demonstration is brewing.

The sun is peeking out from behind a tower. The wedding guests squint while trying to put on appropriately happy expressions.

'Please don't stop because of me.'

The groom is small, elderly and plump; the bride is half a head taller, at least fifteen years younger, has long, fair, almost white hair, like the photographer's. They could even be related, but for him this is probably just another job, or perhaps an excuse to get a camera into the area inconspicuously.

'Now I'd like the bride in the centre, the groom on her left.' He squeezes the shutter and then changes his lens.

The newly-weds disappear from the viewfinder, and the photographer now watches the demonstrators, the uniformed police officers and the militia.

'Thank you. Now if the others would just step to one side slightly, and the groom just a touch to the right. That's right, thank you,' and he presses the shutter. Then he bows

slightly, shakes hands with the wedding guests and walks away. As soon as he turns the corner, two men block his way. The older man looks like a shabby office clerk; the second, who has long hair and is wearing jeans, reminds him of a drummer in an underground band.

The older man shows him some ID. 'Well, Mr Fuka! What are we taking pictures of today?'

The photographer is taken aback. He'd like to hide his camera, but he can't. 'A wedding.'

The man who showed him the ID points to the camera. 'I thought you'd given up photography.'

The photographer holds the camera behind his back, perhaps in a childlike belief that if it can't be seen it doesn't exist. 'I'm working the night shift now.'

'We'll check your story. Whose wedding was it?'

'An acquaintance of mine.'

'Can you tell us his name?'

'No. I don't see why I should.'

'We'll find out anyway. Are you willing to hand over your film voluntarily?'

'No, why should I?'

'Maybe to save yourself a trip.' Both men wait for his reply.

The photographer looks around to see if there is any hope of escape, but the square is teeming with men in uniform, so he shrugs his shoulders and asks, 'Does that mean I'm under arrest?'

The younger man speaks for the first time. 'Why under arrest already? Do you feel guilty or something?'

'Unfortunately,' he replies, 'whether I feel guilty or not has nothing to do with it. Neither do actions.'

'In other words, you'd rather come with us?'

The photographer shrugs his shoulders. He probably can't save his film, but he won't surrender it voluntarily. They have no right to demand it from him.

They lead him away to an ugly, poorly lit room in a nondescript tenement house where they fire questions at him which, for the most part, he does not answer. They want to know about a friend of his who is working as a caretaker in a castle, and about the friend's wife. They even

ask about the woman with whom he's now living, but to whom he is not yet married.

'If you'd behave a little more reasonably,' says the older man, 'you could do better than working as a stoker in a hotel boiler-room. After all, you graduated from the film academy. You've even made a few documentaries about animals. Or have I got that wrong?'

'What does behaving reasonably mean?'

'You must see enough reasonable people around you to give you the right idea,' says the rock drummer.

'You certainly shouldn't be taking pictures of an act of protest organized by the enemies of the state,' the older man advises. 'Maybe you've been promised a bundle for those pictures by some foreign agencies, but I assure you, when you work out your profits and your losses, you'll come up very much on the short side.'

He replies that no one has offered him money for anything, that he's not selling his pictures to agencies or private individuals. He is only taking them for his own pleasure.

The last thing they do is give him a piece of paper stating that they've confiscated the film from his camera. Then they let him go.