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

When he's lying beside Ella in the stuffy but immaculate bedroom she suddenly says, I've wanted to say this to you for a long time — if you wanted to have a child of your own. . '

'What gave you that idea?'

'We've been together so long, how could I not have thought of it?'

'I know. Would you like to have another child?'

'I'd like to have one with you.'

'How nice.'

'What about you?'

'I. . I've never really thought about it. You know the situation I'm in.'

'But you've been in that situation for as long as I've known you.'

'I haven't given it any thought for quite a while.'

'People have children in worse situations.'

'Yes. I used to think about it,' he added. 'It seemed odd to me that people would even consider bringing a child into a world like this. But I suppose that was shallow thinking. The world has always been a terrible place in one way or another.' He is spouting banalities — after all there have been times when he has enjoyed life and felt happy. 'I'll think about it,' he says, though he already knows he does not want to haVe a child with her. Then he embraces her.

They make love as they usually do: wordlessly, without great passion but deftly, both of them coming to a climax at the same time. Then she snuggles close to him and falls asleep almost at once, while he tosses restlessly on the bed, and in his mind caresses the woman with whom he might really have had a child, returns to the cottage where he stayed with her before leaving on his long journey across the sea.

Of course she doesn't go with him, and perhaps that's why she tells him about living in India when she was a child, and about the blind teacher who taught her about the human soul. They pretend that they are travelling in foreign countries, and are happy.

The rain that day beats relentlessly against the window-panes, and the wind whips through the tops of the nearby oak trees. 'What country will you choose?' he asks Alina. Sometimes he calls her Ali, and sometimes Albina.

'I think I hear the sea. It's a warm sea. Even the sand is warm. And the mountains begin close to the shore.'

'Are they high mountains?' he asks.

'Not very high, but they look steep and bare. There's a pathway leading up into them. Do you see it?'

'Wait, yes, I think I do. It's winding among the boulders.'

'That's the one. There are shrubs growing beside it— tamarisk, I think. Would you like to see what it's like on the summit?'

'Why not? Perhaps we'll find something up there, something special. What sea is this?'

'It's a warm sea. When I was little I liked the name "Sargasso". It's the Sargasso Sea.'

'What's sargasso, Ali?'

'It's the name of a seaweed. It's brown.'

'For a long time I never saw the sea. After my attempt to escape, they wouldn't let me travel at all. Then I finally made it to the Baltic. The first day I climbed up on a cliff overlooking the water. I was lucky, because on the ledge of a nearby rock there was an enormous seal, sunning himself. The water in the sea was two different colours. A current, like a stream, was as blue as the sky, but there were dark currents flowing on either side. I sat there for maybe an hour, watching the pure waters battle the dark waters. I remember it well because it was unusual for me— just to sit and look. I was always in a hurry, always eager to see new, amazing things that would change my life.'

'Did you ever see anything that did?'

'If I did manage to catch a glimpse of something, I was soon past it. You can't find anything if you're in too much of a hurry.'

'You're not in a hurry now.'

'Now we're walking along a pathway that leads into the mountains. You know, I didn't really know how to look, either. I sought out things that looked interesting, that would make a good picture.' It seemed odd to be talking about himself so easily, without reserve.

And so on a rainy day, in someone else's cottage, he wanders through her landscape with her. They climb higher and higher until they near the summit. He looks around. The sea lies far beneath them and seems to rise like a smooth, shimmering slope to meet the horizon. The

tamarisk gives off a spicy scent. On a nearby rock a purplish gecko is sunning itself. They climb through the final twists in the pathway and come to a stony plateau overgrown with high, yellow-brown grass which waves in the wind. Perhaps this is sargasso grass. On the opposite hill, several stony crags rise abruptly and barrenly to the sky, heralding another range of mountains beyond. At the base of one of the crags he can make out the shape of a white building. Two low towers rise from a grey roof, and a column of blue smoke hangs above it.

'What kind of building is that, Ali?'

'Perhaps it's a Buddhist temple.'

'Isn't it odd that it's the only building for miles? And there's no sign of people.'

'There must be people there. There's a fire.'

'What if they're spirits?'

'Spirits don't need fire,' she objects.

As they get closer to it he begins to distinguish details of the structure. There is an arched loggia running across the front, and behind it several crenellated stone walls extending back, purictuated by many entrances and low windows. The steep roof is covered with shingle, and flag-poles extend from the peak, with banners that snap in the wind.

'The windows are all closed, and so are the doors.'

'Yes. But there's someone over in the corner, sitting under that little gable.'

'I believe you're right, Alina. He's wearing a black cape and has long, white hair. He's sitting on a throne.'

'That's not a throne, it's a trunk.'

'Do you think he can see us?'

'His eyes are closed. I think he's blind. But he knows we're here.'

'I have a strange feeling,' he says. 'It's as though I was expecting something, as though I was about to learn something vital.'

'It will be him. My teacher. The blind one.'

'The one who told you what the soul comes from?'

'Yes.'

'He taught you about the soul. What else did he teach you?'

'He taught me to exercise and breathe and concentrate and look into the setting sun. He also taught me how to disconnect from things around me and listen to myself, ask questions of myself and reply.'

'That's strange. I don't think we're getting any closer.'

'It's the air that does it. It's hard to judge distances, or… '

'What are you thinking?'

'Or perhaps we're not meant to meet him.'

'I'd like to know what he taught you. Would I understand?'

'I don't know. That would depend on you, wouldn't it?'

'I'll try, and you will help me. I'll be your pupil and you will be my teacher.'

'That's impossible. I can't be your teacher.'

'Why not?'

'Because I'm yours, but in another way.'

'But please, be my teacher, just for a moment.'

'All right. Shall we sit down here?'

'If that's what it takes.'

They sit down on the grass, which is dry and coarse. He watches the wind ruffle her hair. For a long time she says nothing. It makes him anxious. He also feels tired, close to exhaustion. Finally, he decides to speak: 'Why don't you say something?'

'Wait! You have to concentrate.'

'I see a bird of prey circling around the cloister.'

'Look at it but don't think about it. Don't think about anything. Slowly close your eyes.'

Silence. Her breath and the distant sighing of the wind. The whispering of the leaves. The rain.

'What are you thinking?' she asks.

'That you're near.'

'What is nearness?'

'There may be a definition of it, but I don't know what it is.'

'Try saying what comes into your mind.'

'I don't usually say what comes into my mind.'

'Say it now.'

'Alina, it's not easy for me to be intimate with someone.'

'That's exactly why I'm asking you this.'