He drove slowly, now and then interrupting his reflections to look at the landscape. He told himself that the episode of the tablet had been merely a game,
an inconsequential game like his whole life in this land on whose soil he had left not a single trace, not a root or a furrow, a land he was now going away from as a breeze goes away.
19
Lighter by a quarter liter of blood, Klima impatiently waited for Dr. Skreta in his waiting room. He did not wish to leave the spa without saying goodbye and asking him to look after Ruzena a bit. "Until they take it away from me, I can still change my mind." He could still hear these words of hers, and they frightened him. He was afraid that after he left and Ruzena was no longer under his influence, she might at the last minute go back on her decision.
Dr. Skreta finally appeared. Klima rushed toward him, said goodbye, and thanked him for his beautiful work on the drums.
"It was a great concert," said Dr. Skreta, "you played wonderfully. Let's hope we can do it again! We have to think about arranging concerts like that at other spas."
"Yes, I'd be glad to do it, I enjoyed playing with you!" the trumpeter said eagerly, and he added: "I want to ask you a favor. If you could look after Ruzena
a bit. I'm afraid she'll get all worked up again. Women are so unpredictable."
"She won't get worked up anymore, don't worry," said Dr. Skreta. "She's no longer alive."
For a moment Klima did not understand, and Dr. Skreta explained what had happened. Then he said: "It's suicide, but there's something rather puzzling about it. Some people might find it odd that she did away with herself an hour after appearing before the committee with you. No, no, no, don't worry," he added, seizing the trumpeter by the hand when he saw him turning pale. "Fortunately for us, Ruzena had a boyfriend, a young repairman who's convinced the child is his. I've stated that there was never anything between you and the nurse, that she simply persuaded you into playing the child's father because the committee doesn't authorize abortions when both parents are single. So don't spill the beans if you're ever interrogated. You're clearly on edge, and that's a pity. You've got to pull yourself together, because we've still got a lot of concerts ahead of us."
Klima was speechless. He kept bowing to Dr. Skreta and kept shaking his hand.
Kamila was waiting for him in the room at the Richmond. Klima took her in his arms and without a word kissed her on the cheek. He kissed her all over her face, then he kneeled and kissed her dress down to her knees.
"What's come over you?"
"Nothing. I'm so lucky to have you. I'm so lucky you exist."
They packed their bags and carried them to their white sedan. Klima said he was tired and asked her to take the wheel.
They drove in silence. Klima was exhausted, yet greatly relieved. He was still somewhat uneasy about the thought that he might yet be interrogated. If that should occur, Kamila might get wind of something. But he repeated to himself what Dr. Skreta had told him. If he were to be interrogated, he would play the innocent (and in this country common enough) role of the gentleman who plays the father to do a good turn. No one could hold it against him, not even Kamila if she happened to hear about it.
He looked at her. Her beauty filled the space of the car like a heady perfume. He told himself that he wished to breathe only that perfume for the rest of his life. Then he heard in his mind the sweet, distant music of his trumpet, and he resolved for the rest of his life to play this music solely to please her, his only and dearest woman.
20
Whenever she took the wheel, she felt stronger and more independent. But this time it was not only the wheel that gave her self-confidence. It was also the
words of the stranger she had met in the corridor of the Richmond. She was unable to forget them. Nor was she able to forget his face, so much more virile than the smooth face of her husband. Kamila reflected that never before had she known a man, a real man.
She looked sidelong at the trumpeter's tired face, which kept breaking into inscrutably blissful smiles while his hand lovingly caressed her shoulder.
This excessive tenderness neither pleased nor touched her. Insofar as it was inexplicable, it confirmed yet again that the trumpeter had his secrets, a life of his own that he hid from her and excluded her from. But now, instead of hurting her, the observation left her indifferent.
What had the man said? That he was leaving forever. A sweet, prolonged yearning wrung her heart. Not only a yearning for the man but also for the lost opportunity. And not only for that opportunity but also for opportunity as such. She had a yearning for all the opportunities she had let pass, escape, evaded, even for those she had never had.
The man had told her that he had lived all his life like a blind man, that he had not even suspected that beauty exists. She understood him. Because it was the same with her. She, too, lived in blindness. She had been seeing only a single being lit up by the floodlight of her jealousy. And what would happen if that floodlight abruptly went out? In the unfocused light of day other beings would suddenly appear by the thousands,
and the man she had up until now believed was the only one in the world would become one among many.
She was at the wheel feeling sure of herself and beautiful, and she went on thinking: Was it really love that bound her to Klima or only the fear of losing him? And if it could be said that at the beginning this fear had been the anxious form of love, as time passed had not love (tired, worn-out) slipped away from that form? Was what finally remained only fear, fear without love? And what would remain if she lost that fear?
Beside her the trumpeter smiled inscrutably.
She glanced at him and told herself that if she ceased being jealous nothing at all would remain. She was driving at great speed, and she reflected that somewhere ahead on the road of her life a line indicating the breakup with the trumpeter had already been traced. For the first time, this idea inspired neither anxiety nor fear in her.
21
It was evening. Olga entered Bertlef's suite and excused herself: "Pardon me for barging in on you. But I'm in such a state I can't be alone. I'm not disturbing you, am I?"
In the room were Bertlef, Dr. Skreta, and the inspec-
tor; it was the latter who answered Olga: "You're not disturbing us. Our conversation now is unofficial."
"The inspector is an old friend of mine," the doctor explained to Olga.
"Why did she do it?" Olga asked.
"She had a fight with her boyfriend, and in the middle of the argument she took something out of her bag and swallowed poison. That's all we know, and I'm afraid that's all we'll ever know," said the inspector.
"Inspector, please," Bertlef said forcefully, "I beg you to pay attention to what I said in my statement. Here, in this very room, I spent with Ruzena the last night of her life. Perhaps I have not sufficiently emphasized the main thing. It was a wonderful night, and Ruzena was immensely happy. That unassuming girl only needed to throw off the shackles she had been locked into by her indifferent and dreary companions to become a radiant being filled with love, sensitivity, and high-minded-ness, to become the person you would not have suspected was inside her. I am positive that last night I opened for her the door to another life, and it was just last night that she began to have a desire for life. But then someone stood in the way…" said Bertlef, suddenly pensive, and then he added softly: "I sense in it hell's intervention."
"The police don't have much influence over the infernal powers," the inspector said.
Bertlef did not respond to the irony. "The suicide theory really makes no sense," he replied. "Please understand, I beg you! It is impossible that she would
kill herself at the very moment when she was wishing to begin to live! I repeat, I will not allow her to be accused of suicide."
"My dear sir," said the inspector, "no one is accusing her of suicide, for the good reason that suicide is not a crime. Suicide is not something that concerns justice. It's not our concern."
"Motives for suicide are always mysterious," said the inspector. "Besides, looking for them isn't within my purview. Don't hold it against me for confining myself to my duties. I've got enough of those and hardly any time. The case is obviously not yet closed, but I can tell you in advance that I'm not thinking of the homicide theory."
"I admire your quickness," said Bertlef acidly, "your quickness to cross out a human being's life."
Olga saw the inspector's cheeks redden. But he controlled himself, and after a brief pause said in a voice that was almost too amiable: "All right, I accept your theory that a murder has been committed. Let's ask
ourselves how it could have been perpetrated. We found a tube of tranquilizers in the victim's handbag. One could assume that the nurse wanted to take a tablet to calm herself but that someone had previously slipped another tablet into the medicine tube, one that looked like the others but contained poison."
"You think that Ruzena got the poison from the tube of tranquilizers?" asked Dr. Skreta.
"Of course, Ruzena could have got the poison not from the tube but from elsewhere in the handbag. That's what would have happened if it was suicide. But if we adopt the murder theory, we have to accept that someone slipped into the medicine tube a poison that could be mistaken for one of Ruzena's tablets. That's the only possibility."
"Pardon me for contradicting you," said Dr. Skreta, "but it's not so easy to turn an alkaloid into a normal-looking tablet. For that, you need access to pharmaceutical machinery, which isn't available to anybody around here."
"Are you saying it's impossible for an ordinary person to get such a tablet?" the inspector asked.
"It's not impossible, but it's extremely difficult."
"It's enough for me to know that it's possible," said the inspector, and he went on: "Now let's ask ourselves who might have had an interest in killing this woman. She wasn't rich, so we can rule out any financial motive. We can also eliminate political motives or espionage. So we're left with motives of a personal nature. Who are the suspects? First of all, Ruzena's lover, who
had a violent quarrel with her just before her death. Do you believe he was the one who gave her the poison?"
No one answered the inspectors question, and he continued: "I don't think so. The boy was still fighting to keep Ruzena. He wanted to marry her. She was pregnant by him, and even if the child was another man's, what matters is that the boy was convinced she was pregnant by him. When he learned that she wanted an abortion he felt desperate. But please bear in mind that Ruzena had come back from the Abortion Committee, not from the abortion! For our desperate boy, all was not yet lost. The fetus was still alive and he was ready to do anything to save it. It's absurd to think that he would have given her poison at that point, when all he was hoping for was to live with her and have a child with her. Besides, the doctor has explained to us that it isn't possible for just anybody to procure poison that looks like an ordinary tablet. Where could this naive boy with no connections procure it? Would you explain that to me?"
Bertlef, whom the inspector kept addressing, shrugged his shoulders.
"Let's go on to other suspects. There's that trumpeter from the capital. It was here that he became acquainted with the deceased, and we'll never know to what point their relations went. In any case they were close enough for the deceased to ask him to pass himself off as the father of the fetus and to appear with her before the Abortion Committee. Why did she ask him rather than someone from around here? It's not hard to
guess. Any married man living in this little spa town would be afraid of trouble with his wife if word got around. Only someone from somewhere else could have done Ruzena that favor. What's more, the rumor that she was expecting the child of a famous artist could only be flattering to the nurse and could not harm the trumpeter. We can therefore assume that Mister Klima heedlessly agreed to do her the favor. Is that a reason to murder the poor nurse? It's highly improbable, as the doctor has explained to us, that Klima was really the child's father. But examine even that possibility. Let's assume that Klima was the father and that this was extremely disagreeable to him. Can you explain to me why he would kill the nurse when she had agreed to terminate the pregnancy and the operation had already been authorized? Now, Mister Bertlef, do you really want to say that Klima is the murderer?''
"You're misunderstanding me," said Bertlef calmly. "I do not wish to send anyone to the electric chair. I only wish to exonerate Ruzena. Because suicide is the greatest sin. Even a life of suffering has a mysterious value. Even a life on the threshold of death is a thing of splendor. Anyone who has not looked death in the face does not know this, but I know it, Inspector, and that is why I tell you I will do everything I can to prove that this young woman is innocent.''
"I'm trying to do that too," said the inspector. "And actually there's still a third suspect. Mister Bertlef, an American businessman. He's admitted that the deceased spent the last night of her life with him. One might
object that this is something the murderer probably wouldn't voluntarily admit to us. But that objection doesn't pass scrutiny. Everyone at the concert yesterday evening saw Mister Bertlef sitting next to Ruzena and leaving with her. Mister Bertlef knows very well that under such circumstances it's better to admit something promptly rather than to be unmasked by others. Mister Bertlef claims that Nurse Ruzena had a very satisfying night. That shouldn't surprise us! Mister Bertlef is not only a fascinating man but above all he's an American businessman who has dollars and a passport with which you can travel all over the world. Ruzena is walled up in this place, looking in vain for a way out. She has a boyfriend who wants only to marry her, but he's just a young local repairman. If she marries him her fate would be sealed forever, she will never get out. She has nobody else, so she doesn't break up with him. But she avoids binding herself to him permanently because she doesn't want to give up her hopes. And then suddenly an exotic man with refined manners appears, and he turns her head. She believes that he'll marry her and that she'll permanently leave behind this forsaken corner of the world. At first she knows how to behave like a discreet mistress, but then she becomes more and more of a nuisance. She makes it clear that she will not give him up, and she starts to blackmail him. But Bertlef is married and, if I'm not mistaken, he loves his wife, who is the mother of his one-year-old boy and is expected to arrive here from America tomorrow. Bertlef wants at all costs to avoid a scandal. He knows that Ruzena always
carries a tube of tranquilizers, and he knows what the tablets look like. He has a lot of connections abroad, and he has a lot of money. For him it's no problem to have a poison tablet made that looks the same as Ruzenas medicine. In the course of that wonderful night, while his mistress was sleeping, he slipped the poison into the tube. I think, Mister Bertlef," the inspector concluded with a solemnly raised voice, "that you are the only person with a motive to murder the nurse and also the only person with the means. I ask you to confess."
Silence pervaded the room. The inspector looked Bertlef in the eye for a long while, and Bertlef returned the look with equal patience and silence. His face expressed neither amazement nor irritation. At last he said: "I am not surprised by your conclusion. Since you are incapable of finding the murderer, you have to find someone to assume reponsibility for the offense. It is one of the mysterious laws of life that the innocent must pay for the guilty. Please do arrest me."
22
The countryside was suffused
with soft twilight. Jakub halted in a village only a few kilometers from the border crossing. He wished to prolong the last moments he would be spending in his country. He got out of the
car to take a little stroll down the village street.
It was not a pretty street. Lying around in front of the low-roofed houses were rolls of rusted wire, an old tractor wheel, pieces of scrap metal. It was a neglected, ugly village. Jakub told himself that the scattering of rusted wire was like a coarse word his native land was addressing to him by way of farewell. He walked to the end of the street to a small pond. The pond, neglected too, was covered with green scum. Some geese were splashing around at its edge, and a boy with a switch was trying to herd them away.
Jakub turned around to go back to his car. Just then he became aware of a little boy standing behind a window. Barely five years old, he was looking out the window toward the pond. Perhaps he was watching the geese, perhaps he was watching the boy flailing at the geese with his switch. He was behind the window, and Jakub could not take his eyes off him. What fascinated Jakub about the child's face were the eyeglasses. They were large eyeglasses, probably with thick lenses. The child's head was little and the eyeglasses were big. He was wearing them like a burden. He was wearing them like a fate. He was looking through the frames of his eyeglasses as if through a wire fence. Yes, he was wearing the frames as if they were a wire fence he would have to drag along with him all his life. And Jakub looked through the wire fence of the eyeglasses at the little boy's eyes, and he was suddenly filled with great sadness.
Farewell Waltz Page 19
