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

Finally she came back, wearing a pale blue dress with a handmade lace collar. 'The collar was my grandmother's,' she said when she saw that he was looking intently at her.

'I'm not looking at the collar, I'm looking at you. You've changed so little. But you're more beautiful than you seemed then.'

'Thank you. You're flattering me, but it won't get you anywhere because I don't believe you.'

The children were either asleep or staying quiet. She spread a cloth on the table and put a bowl of apples on it. Then she brought in some sandwiches and a bottle of wine. She smiled at him but said nothing, and suddenly he couldn't bring himself to speak either.

Finally, she asked, 'How did your mother die?'

'In her sleep. She just fell asleep and never woke up. It was a stroke.'

'She had a nice death, if death can be nice.'

'When I was in Mexico, I asked an Indian how old he was and he said: soon it will be sixty-five years ago that I began to die. I didn't understand what he meant. He said that was how everyone there expresses his age. A person begins to die the moment he is born.' His voice sounded unnatural. He wasn't able to control the tremor in it. He reached for a

glass and poured some wine for himself and for her.

'One day you'll see your mother again,' she said.

'Do you believe that? Where would all those who have ever died fit?'

'Into a space as small as one of those apples. Souls don't need space, and death can't be the end of everything.'

He wanted to object that everything not only could, but must, come to an end, that even the stars would one day go out, that only time would last for eternity. But he hadn't come here to argue with her about everlasting life.

'You know, you always were a bit spoilt. Your mother did everything for you,' she said.

'She didn't really,' he objected.

'You phoned me one evening and said there was something wrong with your heart. But your heart was all right, it was just that you'd overeaten.'

'My mother was in a spa at the time. I felt sad and lonely and I wanted you to come over, so I invented a pain in my chest.'

'You recovered pretty quickly, as I recall.' She laughed.

It had all happened too long ago. Twenty years ago. He shouldn't forget that. 'What about you?' he asked. 'Don't you ever feel sad and lonely?'

She became defensive. 'Everyone feels sad and lonely sometimes. But I'm alive. I'd be quite happy if… ' She shrugged her shoulders. 'If I only had a little more time. So many things are happening now, and I have the feeling that they're passing me by because my work. . Illnesses, they're always the same. But what's happening now can never be repeated.'

'Nothing can ever be repeated.'

'Yes, but before it often seemed to me that one day was just like another. Now it's different.'

'Do you think it's really all that different now?'

'Doesn't it seem so to you?'

'Well, maybe it's just a new version of the old war. Over who keeps their job and who doesn't and who gets the most out of it.'

'You haven't changed, Pavel. You always see the worst side of everything. I happen to think that people have

changed for the better. They have here at least, I don't know about where you work. Maybe you've rubbed someone the wrong way?'

'No. I've only rubbed myself the wrong way.'

'You've been doing that all your life.'

'Does anyone know how to live the way he'd like?'

'You're right. I'm no better. I believed — for the children's sake, not mine — that what happened to so many marriages would never happen to us.'

'It couldn't have been your fault.'

'I don't know. I racked my brains for a long time trying to work out whose fault it was. Then I said to myself that I can't be the judge, and that it's not so important anyway. The important thing is that it happened. Something I hadn't expected. I don't think Peter expected it either. You often do things you don't want to do, or at least you end up somewhere you never wanted to be.'

'Maybe he'll come back.'

'He won't come back, and even if he did I wouldn't want him to.'

'Why did it happen?'

She shrugged. 'Maybe it was the times we lived in that did it. He couldn't do what he wanted to do and live the way he wanted to live. Or perhaps it was already in him. Some discontent. Maybe it was a need to destroy what he loved. Maybe I wasn't interesting enough for him. Or maybe he just fell in love.' She got up and walked over to the window so he wouldn't see the tears in her eyes.

'He sometimes comes to visit,' she said. 'Actually, he comes to see the children. He tells me what he's doing, of course, but he's never mentioned you. He never told me that you were going to leave.'

'Several of us have set up a studio and we're going to make our own films. We're going to be more free to do what we want.'

'Are you really going to make your own films?'

Her question took him aback. He ought to let her think so, to keep alive the notion that he was acting more freely. But he told her the truth. 'So far we're only making commercials.'

'Ads? You can't be serious.' She came back to the table, apparently relieved that they were no longer talking about her.

'To make an independent film that no one is going to mess around with I need money. Advertising is a way of making money.'

'I suppose I just don't understand. I thought that when the moment came and you were able. . that you'd do something really wonderful.'

'Did you really think that?'

'Didn't you think that too?'

Almost everyone thinks that of themselves. There's nothing easier than persuading yourself you could really do something if you tried, as long as you know that they'll never give you the chance. The system never allowed you to win, and so it saved you from defeat as well.'

'You told me you were writing a screenplay.'

Yes.'

'Have you written it?'

Yes.'

'Whaťs it called?'

'Waiting for the Dark, Waiting for the Light. '

'Waiting for the Dark?' she repeated.

'That's it.'

And Waiting for the Light. What are you waiting for now?'

'It made sense to make the film when it couldn't be made. It doesn't make sense now.'

'If you've written a good screenplay, why wouldn't it make sense now?'

'I don't know whether it's any good or not. I don't know whether you'd like it. Probably not. It's mad.'

'I like madness.'

'I wrote it as a reaction against what I was doing. It was a kind of escape.'

'Yes,' she said. You've always tried to escape. Do you remember you promised to take me with you to Mexico? It was like promising me a trip to the moon. When you finally got there, you didn't even send me a postcard.'

'But I thought of you when I was there.'

'I'm supposed to believe you?'

'In a big colourful market-place near Tula I bought a turquoise bracelet to give to you some day when we saw each other again, but then I thought that it wouldn't be appropriate. I still have it at home.'

'Didn't you give it to Eva?'

'It was for you.'

'Why did you leave Eva?' she said, ignoring his reassurance.

'It hadn't been great between us for some time. My drinking upset her.'

'I don't blame her a bit.'

'One of the reasons I drank was because I didn't have anyone to love.'

'You always have an explanation for everything.'

'We were together out of necessity, and the necessity ended. At least for her. She went back to her husband.'

'Well, good for her.' He thought there was a note of grumpiness in her voice, perhaps a touch of jealousy, and it encouraged him.

'Did you let her read your screenplay?' she asked quickly, as though she wanted to avoid the topic of possible reconciliations.

'No, I haven't let anyone read it. It was too personal to let anyone read it, at least anyone close to me. '