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

'Pavel.'

'It's your son,' said the neighbour. 'You told me about him yourself.'

'Is it you?'

'It's me.'

'It's good of you to come. Where am I? This isn't my bed.'

'You're in hospital, Mother.'

'How did you find me here?'

'He looked for you, didn't he,' said the neighbour. 'He knows his mother's here.'

'Yes, he says I used to be his mother,' she allowed. 'Isn't Daddy coming?'

'No.'

'He probably hasn't got the time,' said the neighbour. 'It's like I said, no one's got the time any more. My husband hasn't been to see me for a week. He just phones. They say the president resigned. Is that true?' she asked Pavel.

He nodded.

'What a pity,' said the neighbour. 'A pity I have to be here, I mean. If I were at home, we'd celebrate.'

'But he's resigned so often already,' said his mother.

'Not this one,' laughed the neighbour.

'It doesn't matter,' said the mother. 'They all have to go one day. Have they put him in a hospital too?'

'Who?'

'The one you're always talking about.'

'No,' he said. 'Do you feel any pain?'

'How could I feel any pain? They've taken away my body.'

He stroked her hand. He couldn't think what to say to her. Perhaps she would die in a few days. He should do something for her. What can you do for a mother whose body is departing and whose soul is already gone? Talk to her about hope. But what kind of hope would she understand? And what kind of hope did she have left? What kind of hope did he believe in himself? What would he want in her situation?

He'd want not to be among complete strangers. He'd want someone to hold his hand. Once again he stroked her unbandaged hand. It was cold, wrinkled and rough.

'The air in here is strange,' she said. 'I don't think I'm at home. And I don't know where little Pavel is.'

'I'm Pavel.'

'You're just making fun of me. Little Pavel was my son. A tiny little boy.'

'Well, who do you think I am? It's just that I've grown up since then.'

'Little Pavel never grew up. I don't know what became of him. He was a good boy. I was fond of him, and he was fond of me.' She sobbed under her breath. 'It makes me sad that I haven't seen him so long.' She closed her eyes and continued to sob.

The telephone rang. "El Senor Fuka?'

'Al aparato.' He wasn't properly awake and didn't know what time it was, but it was still deep night outside his window. The fan on the ceiling was turning noisily. He was lying in his hotel room. Karel Sokol was sleeping soundly in the other bed. They'd drunk too many tequilas last night. Why hadn't Sokol answered the telephone? But no, the call was apparently for Pavel. 'Quien habla?'

'Un momento. Le llaman. '

'Dr Valentová here. Can you hear me?'

'Yes, I can hear you very clearly, Dr Valentová.'

'I'm Albina's mother.'

Yes, I know that, doctor.'

'I just wanted to tell you the news. I took my daughter to the hospital last night.'

'Oh, God! Has anything serious happened?'

'She began to bleed, but there's still hope. I just thought you should know.'

'Yes, thank you. But I don't know… Do you think I should come home?'

'I have no idea what your responsibilities are. But my daughter isn't in the best of shape, psychologically. I mean, you know what this child would mean to her. . '

'I do. Please tell her I'll come. Tell her I'll come on the first available flight.'

'I'll give you her number at the hospital. Perhaps you should tell her yourself.'

'Yes. Thank you. I'll call her.'

Four o'clock in the morning, which means it's ten in the morning at home, no, eleven.

Still half asleep, Sokol asked, 'Is something wrong?'

'I'm going to have to go back.'

'Back where?'

'Back home.'

'What — are you crazy? Was that production calling? They agreed that we could extend our stay.'

'It wasn't production. You can go back to sleep.'

'How can I sleep when you've just gone off your rocker?'

'I'll explain in the morning.'

He should call the hospital right away but he didn't have anything definite to tell her. Besides, he was confused. The first thing he had to do was reserve a flight. Before that he had to sort things out with Sokol. He couldn't just get up and fly away when the work was barely half finished. So the first thing he had to do was call the hospital and find out if it still made any sense to fly back now. But before that he had to know something definite. And the day after tomorrow they were supposed to fly to Merida, and he couldn't get out of that because the shooting had all been arranged. .

When morning came everything seemed far less urgent than it had in the dead of night. The telephone conversation had become an unreal nightmare.

'Too bad you never introduced me to her,' said Sokol. 'I'd like to see the woman you're willing to drop everything for. You can't help her anyway,' he went on. 'Her mother's a doctor. She'll look after her. You've got responsibilities here. You can't just pack up and leave. She has to understand that.'

It sounded convincing. Besides, he would probably never get to this part of the world again, and there was still so much he wanted to see and film.

The next morning he called the hospital from the airport. He left a message for Albina saying he would return as soon as he could. He flew off to Merida, but he was now in a rush. In a single day, he tried to accomplish what they had to do in a week. Then the Indian chauffeur that they had hired gently remonstrated with him. Why were these white men always in such a hurry? If you are in too much of a hurry, he explained, your spirit won't be able to keep

up with you. If you don't wait for it, it will never catch up.

His mother opened her eyes again. 'Where am I, anyway?'

'You were asleep,' he said. 'You were lucky not to be burnt to death.'

His mother laughed. 'I was lucky. I used to be lucky, once. And what are you doing, Pavel? Are you lucky too?'

'We're all lucky now, Mrs Fuková,' interrupted the neighbour. 'We're all ecstatic.'

'Yes,' said his mother. 'We're delighted you came, Pavel, that you're here with me, that you'll stay with me.'

His mother closed her eyes again. He ought to stay here with her, not rush away. He ought to stay here with her till the very end.

3

He finished work in the editing room earlier then he expected, and an empty stretch of time loomed before him. He saw a small group of strangers in the corridor, conversing with great animation. The building was now full of unfamiliar faces, some of whom might have been returning after years of absence — not to this building, which was practically new, but to jobs they had once held. These people made him uneasy. He walked by them as quickly as he could. The porter in the lodge acknowledged him with a nod on his way out. At least they hadn't replaced him. Not yet.

It was a cold evening outside. The paving-stones were greasy with layers of soot, dust and mist, and the air was acrid with smoke. He got into his sports car and drove the short distance to the city centre. He realized he was close to the store where Eva worked, and could drop in. He hadn't seen her for several days. Somehow, there never seemed to be enough time.

With Sokol, he had driven around the towns and the cities, mostly in the north of the country. Out of the fog that shrouded the countryside, softening the outlines of people and things, demonstrators emerged, flags waved and

speakers rose spontaneously to address spontaneous gatherings. Mostly they were people who had not been allowed to speak for years. They clambered on to piles of rock, balanced on the rims of fountains and on pedestals of statues whose removal they demanded, just as they demanded the removal of those who had bowed down before these statues. They spun visions of how everyone's life, including Pavel's own, would quickly be transformed and rise above the poverty in which it had for so long been mired. Others, who preferred actions to words, climbed on to rooftops to remove the snow-covered symbols of yesterday's power. They pulled down street signs and fastened in their place new plaques scrawled with names that until recently had been unmentionable, and they sometimes gathered threateningly under the windows of abandoned Party secretariats, ready to break in and begin, or rather complete, the purging. In every face he saw a kind of ecstasy that looked almost sexual.