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

When he awoke that night, there were the biers again, covered with white sheets. This time there was no one

under the sheets, only emptiness, air. He got out of bed and walked past them, opened the door into the long corridor, and there they were, more of them, side by side, each with a white sign at its head with a name written in black letters. A hundred and thirty-nine of them. And when he walked past them, down the corridor faintly illuminated by the moonlight, the biers suddenly began to float. He couldn't understand how his enemies had created this effect. Perhaps it was overheated air, or magnetism, but the biers floated up to the level of his chest, wobbling slightly so that the wooden legs and the frames collided and sounded like the clacking of bones, like a menacing applause, and then, above all these sounds, there emerged a high-pitched howling, as though a hundred throats were wailing all at once, and he came close to opening the window in sheer terror and jumping out to escape those sounds. He might have leapt from the heights into the depths and fallen, not flung to his death at the hands of an outraged people but driven by the intrigues of those who did not hesitate to exploit the wretched victims of a tragic accident in their silent campaign against him.

And the prime minister's wife — he realized that the cunning reptile was still speaking to him — her name is Patricia, she's his only wife, and be careful to remember that both are Christian, she studied psychology in California and you can talk about charitable activities and medical care, not about. .

The valet enters carrying his black suit over his arm. He will tell him that the time has come to go into the bathroom and change. The chancellor snaps the folder shut. 'Any comments, Comrade President?'

The ministers and experts will be present at the negotiations. Let them worry about those things. That's what they're paid for, after all. Let them think about something else for a change besides their secret Swiss bank accounts.

'Would you like to read over the welcoming speech now?'

'In the car, there'll be time enough in the car.' The valet guides him into the bathroom.

There's a shirt on a hanger, a pure white shirt, and his

golden cuff-links lie ready on a small wooden tray.

Suddenly he has an idea. 'That hijacker, the one sentenced to hang,' he says, turning to the chancellor. 'Do you know who it is?'

The chancellor does a little skip on his chickenlike legs and nods enthusiastically.

'Summon him here,' he orders. 'I want to hear what he has to say.'

'But, Comrade President,' he says, winding himself around the president's leg, 'He's a dangerous criminal and the court has already sentenced him. . '

'Summon him,' he repeats, 'I want to review his case and offer an opinion.'

'Of course, Comrade President.' The chancellor's voice sounds constricted, as though the hunter were already closing his hand around his neck. 'When?'

'Find some time,' he says. 'But let it be when this nigger is still here.'

'Yes, Comrade President.'

'And that film-maker who entertained me so well.' The name has slipped his mind and he doesn't even know the film-maker's crime. That's not important, they'll find that out for him. Let the chancellor look at himself writhing in the hands of a hunter, watch as they break his poisonous teeth.

'Should I summon him as well?'

He dips his hands in the wash-basin. Behind him the valet obligingly holds a clean white towel ready for him to use. The chancellor's snakelike eyes gaze at him disapprovingly.

That's their method: prevent him from meeting with anyone, except perhaps some black man who will put on airs and flaunt his authority. They even say he can act as a judge because he's got a Cambridge education, while the president has only been to a provincial university. So he will choose someone, summon him and then demonstrate his magnanimity. But how can he do this when they sabotage his invitations, when they only pretend to do as he says? And then, of course, they spread rumours that he can't relate to people, that he's incapable of judgement, of making decisions, that he can't do anything, or change anything and should therefore be replaced. But he will surprise

them all. He will foil their treacherous plans, and one day, when they least expect it, he will appear before the people and declare freedom. Let the people themselves decide his fate, and then let all his enemies tear themselves apart. But he will have done what he had to do, and no one will ever again say that he lost touch with the people or that he had governed merely through compulsion and fear.

'The day after tomorrow at the very latest,' he orders. 'And bring both the criminals here in a civilized manner. I don't want to see any shackles, or any handcuffs.' He sighs and begins to pull his shirt over his head.

III

It's eight-thirty in the morning. Once again, a key rattles in the lock at an odd time. With the guard in the doorway are two unfamiliar men, one, obviously some big-shot, in uniform, the other a fat slob in civvies with a pistol swelling his back pocket. Could this be the moment?

Robert rattles off the regulation response with Gabo's quickened breathing on the back of his neck.

'Bartoš, get ready to go!' The guard's voice sounds strange; it wavers, with a tinge of kindness in it. It fills him with a terrifying premonition.

'What about my things?'

'Did I say anything about things?'

They lead him down the stairs without even putting the cuffs on him. He doesn't know what to do, so he counts the floors as they pass them. As they approach ground level, his terror intensifies. The steps lead directly to the exit into the third courtyard. Maybe the gallows are down there ready for him. They will drag him on to the platform and some shit-faced strangler will push forward, probably this fat guy in civvies, and yell at him to prepare himself. It's only now that he can imagine what it will be like. He can't stop visualizing a pair of huge, hairy, sadistic hands fingering his throat. He can bite them, at least, kick the bloody sadist in the balls, and then they'll jump on him as

they have so often before, only this time will be the last time. There are always enough of them to overpower him, and then nothing in the world could prevent those disgusting hands from tying the noose around his neck.

Sweat pours down his forehead, and the back of his shirt is soaked. Aren't they even going to offer him a last breakfast? Won't they let him smoke his last cigarette?

They walk past the exit to the courtyard and trudge down the stairs into the basement. If they were to shove him into a bunker he'd go quietly. Anything would be better than the rope. That would put an end to everything. They go past a row of bolted doors until they come to one that's open. Inside, a guard with a simian forehead brings him civvies, and he is ordered to change. Then they herd him down some more corridors to the barber's shop where a man in a white smock sticks a paper cloth under his collar, soaps his face and passes a razor over it a couple of times. At one point, his chin is in a tight grip; the barber would only have to make a quick slice and that would be it. . But he doesn't. The barber rinses his face off and even sprays it with some kind of perfumed shit, and then they can go.

Why hasn't he ever wondered about how they would play the last dirty trick? He might have realized that these bastards would have their pleasure spoiled if they had to watch a jailbird swinging in shit-filled sweatpants and a vomit-stained windcheater; that's why they're decking him out like he's going to a wedding. Finally, at the end of the corridor, they put the cuffs on him. A grille slides back and he finds himself in the first courtyard where two policemen and a yellow-and-white prison van stand ready. The policemen escort him to the wagon, but before they can shove him inside, someone in civvies rushes up gesticulating wildly and says something to the fat man. Then the fat man goes over to the driver and sends him and his rabbit hutch on wheels to hell.