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

When he had last seen Eva, he had noticed this same look on her face. In strangers, it seemed to make their faces more attractive, or at least more interesting, but Eva's ecstasy had repelled him. What was she hoping for, what did she expect the altered circumstances would bring her, and him? What could she possibly understand of these events? Perhaps he was simply repelled by an emotion in her which was not occasioned by him.

He parked in a side-street right in front of the entrance to a bar.

It was packed inside, as it always was in all the bars at that time of day. He stood by the taps and ordered a large vodka. On the wall, along with posters of half-naked models and advertisements for beer, was a picture of the new president. An American pop song playing softly from a set of speakers was drowned out in the din of voices. A massive man standing beside him was trying to communicate his opinion of the situation to the barman. 'We're being far too soft on them. It's going to backfire.'

'Their turn will come,' said the barman. 'Everything takes time.'

'The way I see it, either we beat the shit out of them or

they're going to beat the shit out of us again tomorrow. It's like rats. They leave sinking ships, and if you don't beat them to death they'll just crawl on board another ship and go on eating everything in sight.'

Where do I belong? he thought. With those who'll do the beating or with those who'll get beaten to death? He didn't know anybody here, but he wondered if someone might recognize him. His picture sometimes appeared in the television guide. He felt uneasy. He ordered another vodka, tossed it back and left the bar.

Eva was rearranging something on a shelf when he walked in. She turned around as soon as she heard the door creak. 'So it's you? What are you doing here?'

'I just got back to town and I've come straight to see you.'

'That's nice of you. I'm closing up soon. Will you come home with me tonight?'

'Where else would I go?'

'I don't know. I don't know where you go when you're not with me.'

'You can close up right away,' he said. 'People have other things to think about now, besides buying handkerchiefs or socks.'

'Business is always slack after Christmas.' She got up, went to the door, locked it and hung up a sign that said: gone to the post office. 'I'm here on my own today. I still have some accounts to do, and then I should take the money to the post office. You can wait in the back and I'll make you some coffee.'

The room behind the shop was partly like an office and partly reminiscent of a women's powder-room, with a basin, a mirror, a shelf crammed with little bottles and vials and creams, a table and two armchairs, one of which unfolded into a bed. On top of a metal filing cabinet stood a hotplate with a kettle on it in which water was apparently always on the boil. The room was hot. He took off his sweater, sat down on the chair and lit a cigarette. She made coffee for him and for herself, then sat down opposite him. She had spent all day in the shop, yet her hair and makeup were flawless, and her white blouse seemed so clean it might have come straight off a hanger.

'So, what was it like out there?'

He said that he'd had a lot of work. Everything was in flux now, so much was happening, there was lots to see and therefore lots to film, and no one had to approve what he shot any more.

She asked how his mother was, but he hadn't had a chance to go to the hospital that day. Over the phone they told him that the burns were healing surprisingly well. It was his mother's mind that was beyond healing.

'What's Robin been up to?' he asked.

'He's thrilled by what's happening. He wants to watch the television news every night.'

'You're not thrilled?'

She looked at him as though she were wondering what he wanted to hear.

Of course she was thrilled. She had nothing to lose, she hadn't got mixed up in politics, she'd only sold things of slightly worse quality than things sold everywhere else in the world.

'They say there'll be private shops again,' she said, not replying 'directly. 'And they also say they're going to give people back their property, maybe even whole factories.'

'What's that got to do with us?'

'It's just that that's what they told us at head office.'

'My parents owned nothing, not even a kennel,' he said. 'They won't be giving anything back to me.'

'Nor to me, either. Unless they give Kučera back the factory his father used to own.' She sounded casual, but it was clear she had given the possibility a great deal of thought.

The telephone rang.

She stood up quickly and grabbed the receiver. He could hear a male voice on the other end asking a question. He saw that she was blushing. He got up, but there was nowhere for him to go, unless he went back into the shop, which was supposed to be empty.

'Call me tomorrow,' she said into the phone, unconsciously lowering her voice. 'I have a visitor.' She hung up quickly. 'That was him,' she said, 'Kučera. He wants to arrange to take Robin skiing.'

'So why didn't you make the arrangements?'

She shrugged her shoulders. 'I need some time to think about it.' She walked over to the desk, bent over and began rummaging for something in the bottom drawer.

He watched her half-exposed breasts, the breasts he had touched so often. He reached for her and took her in his arms.

She looked at him, surprised, but then let herself be kissed. 'Are you mad?' she said, when he began fondling her. 'We can't do it here

'But you've locked the door.'

'The boss has a key.'

'Do you think she might turn up?'

'And I have to go to the post office.'

He stroked her breasts.

'I don't know, I don't know.' But she didn't resist when he carried her to the chair.

She made love to him perfunctorily, silently and passively, probably because she didn't like the place.

'You make love to me, but you don't really like me,' she said as she was putting on her clothes.

'What makes you say that?'

'When was the last time you told me you loved me?'

'I love you.'

'But you don't want to have a baby with me.'

He said nothing.

'And you don't want to marry me.'

'But it's as though we're married.'

'Yes, you can have me any time you want. In the shop, on a chair, just because you happen to feel like it. But you're not interested in the rest of it. You're not interested in me. You're not interested in Robin either. You don't like either of us.'

'I have no idea why you're talking like this.'

'I've known for ages. I'm just telling you now. You only care about your mother and maybe your camera — at least you make bloody sure no one does that any harm.'

'Has anyone done you any harm?'

'Yes. You!'

'Here? Now?'

'Here or somewhere else. It doesn't matter where, you don't really love me. You think only about yourself.'

She went back to the desk and pushed the drawer shut. Then she took some lipstick out of her handbag and began to apply it carefully as she looked in the mirror. 'How long do you think I'm going to hang around waiting to see whether you've decided to stay with me or take up with someone else?'

'But I'm staying with you.'

'All the same, you're cheating on me. Don't think I don't know it.'

'I'm not cheating on you,' he said, without conviction. Her explosion had caught him off guard. Until now, she had submissively done things his way. Something must have happened. She was a real shopkeeper. She had it in her blood. The world around her was collapsing and rearranging itself into something that could bring profit or loss or something else entirely.

Until now, he had represented profit to her. He was a better sort of companion than she could ever have hoped for. Either she had concluded that he could no longer bring her any advantage, or someone else had appeared who offered her better value. Or both of those things had happened, and he had failed to notice.