by Ivan Klíma
Praise for Lovers for a Day:
“This newest volume of stories … suggests that what we talk about when we talk of love is nothing less than the paradox of maintaining faith when betrayal is inevitable. … Lovers for a Day reveals the increasing complexity of Klíma’s vision as he confronts universal paradoxes of modern life.”
—Elizabeth Shostak, The Boston Book Review
“Klíma is simply not read widely enough in the U.S. … A master of the significant detail—telling only that which is essential.”
—Brad Hooper, Booklist
“[Lovers for a Day] looks at the despair of love, then shifts to a more mature, bittersweet acceptance of its imperfections.”
—San Francisco Examiner & Chronicle
“In [Lovers for a Day] we witness … the blossoming of [Klíma’s] sensibility as the stunting secrecy and unhappiness of politics are removed. … In [the book’s] questions we hear echoes of Chekhov. And Klíma’s technique, too, descends from Chekhov. … Klíma suggests we all avoid the simple acts of love that might redeem us … accomplished and insightful … wise.”
—Adam Kirsch, Boston Phoenix Literary Section
“With precise prose and an uncanny ability to write conversations between husband and wife or lovers, Klíma gives the reader accurate portrayals of life. The overwhelming need for love and the unlikely matches that sometimes occur are deftly explored. … Excellent.”
—Lisa Rohrbaugh, Library Journal (starred review)
“Klíma has evolved differently from his contemporaries. … Rather than become embittered by his country’s past, Klíma has come to a truce with imperfection—the imperfection of history and of love.”
—Jennie Yabroff, San Francisco Chronicle
LOVERS FOR A DAY
Also by Ivan Klima
A Ship Named Hope
My Merry Mornings
My First Loves
A Summer Affair
Love and Garbage
Judge on Trial
My Golden Trades
The Spirit of Prague
Waiting for the Dark, Waiting for the Light
The Ultimate Intimacy
LOVERS FOR A DAY
Ivan Klíma
Translated from the Czech by
Gerald Turner
This collection copyright © 1999 by Ivan Klíma
Translation copyright © 1999 by Gerald Turner
The stories in Lovers for a Day have been translated from the following collections: Milenci na jednu noc (Lovers for One Night), Milenci na jeden den (Lovers for One Day), Milostne rozhovory (Intimate Conversations).
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Any members of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or publishers who would like to obtain permission to include the work in an anthology, should send their inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 841 Broadway, New York, NY 10003.
First published in Great Britain by Granta Books in 1999
Published simultaneously in Canada
Printed in the United States of America
FIRST GROVE PRESS PAPERBACK EDITION
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Klíma, Ivan.
[Short stories. English. Selections]
Lovers for a day / Ivan Klíma; translated from the Czech by
Gerald Turner.
p. cm.
eBook ISBN-13: 978-0-8021-9664-4
I. Turner, Gerald. II. Title.
PG5039.21.L5L68 1999
891.8′6354—dc21 99-27586
Grove Press
841 Broadway
New York, NY 10003
CONTENTS
Lovers for One Night
Execution of a Horse
The Assembly Line
Lingula
Heaven, Hell, Paradise
Honeymoon
Intimate Conversations
Long-Distance Conversations
Conjugal Conversations
About Love and Death
Uranus in the House of Death
It’s Raining Out
A Baffling Choice
Rich Men Tend to Be Strange
The White House
Lovers for One Night
EXECUTION OF A HORSE
1
A bright violet flash. She half opened her eyes at the light. A storm, she realized, an early morning storm. The windows rattled slightly. She was gripped by anxiety. I ought to run to Mummy for shelter, it automatically occurred to her, but I can’t do that any more. It’s been ages since I could! She shut her eyes tightly, and strangely that feeling from the time when she could still run for shelter came back to her, that feeling of reassurance. Maybe it was because of the storm, or because she was close to dreaming, or because it hadn’t really been so long since she used to run to her mother.
The feeling was so strong that she actually reached out into the empty space beside her and thought she was touching a hand and hearing quiet breathing. Having started with a storm, what sort of day would it turn out to be?
When she awakes for the second time, it feels like full morning already. She can feel the warmth on her eyelids and the sound of an argument comes through the wall.
She pads across the parquet in her bare feet: her toes sense the morning and how the day stands – it’s my free day – and once more there is the twinge of realization that she no longer knows what to blame him on or where to go to avoid him. But why should I avoid him? I simply won’t think about him. After all, it was what I wanted too. We weren’t a good match anyway – even if he hadn’t done what he did.
Even so she can’t stop feeling sorry for herself. How could he have done it? How could he have deceived her when she loved him and he said he loved her too? I could never have done it.
Love, she reflects, true love, is unbreakable. It is complete and everlasting, even though I may never ever know it: not everyone is destined to experience true love. And she feels a sudden pang of regret. Just outside the window drops of water glisten on the dry branch which reminds her of an owl. You think I’ll never know it, that nothing like that happens these days, but I’ll bide my time, and then one morning like this one he’ll lean over me, my beloved, and put his hand here, right here, and he’ll be here at my side, all of him, and his warmth will enfold me.
And she feels lonely, very lonely. There is nothing else she need think about and she is utterly dejected. When she has dressed she quietly climbs the narrow winding staircase that emerges in front of a low door underneath the rafters. Here there is a room she can escape to. It’s not even a proper room. It used to be just a mansard: it has a sloping roof and a small, high window, starting at neck level and ending at the height of her forehead. The room contains nothing but childhood junk, a tin washbasin to bring water from the passage, and a cupboard, an ironing board with a hole burnt in the cover, a rocking chair and a great big ball of blue twine – not of hemp, let alone paper, but of some synthetic material: twine for tying up parcels and battered suitcases, as well as for hanging washing, and those in despair. It now hangs on a nail and its free end swings to and fro almost imperceptibly, rather scarily in this room with the door and window closed. But it calms her to sit in the rocking chair watching the world see-saw up and down.
It’s still the early morning and the sun shines in her eyes; above it the heavens with two clouds that sail slowly past. A shoreless lake with boats sinking, a blue desert with a caravan of white elephants. I can sail and wander. In the complete silence she ca
n hear the sand noiselessly piling up into blue dunes, and slowly, like a mirage, the outline of the first tower emerges, and a chimney thrusting skywards and an enormous plinth for an enormous statue, with no statue, that marvellous landmark; and lower and lower, below the roofs - this is my city - down to the river, and above the river coloured prisms with cellophane and trams (chipped thermos flasks), motor cars and converging dots just moving – those are people – if I were to go down there I’d be like them and maybe someone would be glad and say, Stay here now, don’t go back. No thank you, I’m happy here. This is where I’m happiest of all. Here I’m all alone when I feel like it and I won’t be if I don’t feel like it. And up again: the owl-shaped branch again, and higher and higher up to the outline of the last tower and the chimney thrusting skywards. It’s still early morning and the sun is rising. The day had such a pallid start - but now, now it’s like a tree growing out of the damp earth, like a field, like a roof facing away from the city. She would like to do something: I have to do something on a day like this. I’ll put on that white pleated skirt and then I could go for a swim – with Markéta probably – or just go off somewhere, go and thumb a lift from the last tram stop, all on my own – why not, someone’s bound to stop and give me a lift somewhere. And maybe he’ll be young and afterwards he’ll say, Actually I’m not going anywhere, it was just a whim this morning. And I’ll reply, It wasn’t just your whim, it was mine as well. Except that it’ll turn out to be some dreary married man instead. But that doesn’t matter, I’ll get dropped off somewhere where there are some rocks and climb up them. And then when I get to the top, it’ll be like it used to be with us, only I’ll lie down in the warm clovery grass all by myself, far from any path, and wait.
And she quietly slips out of the room that is more like a mansard and in which only the end of the ball of twine will now swing to and fro almost imperceptibly behind the closed window and the closed door.
2
Heading for the tram in her white pleated skirt and green blouse she has to pass the old dump with BEWARE FALLING MASONRY and two hideous angels over the door. She hesitates briefly and then walks in past the one-armed watchman. I oughtn’t to really, I’ll end up bumping into that old so-and-so of hers I’m not supposed to know about, though these days she doesn’t make too much of an effort to conceal it. Poor Mum with that bald fat old slob. She knocks on the door and then opens it. From within emerges the confused din of typewriters with the pale blue glow of the strip-lighting and the stench of cigarettes and cheap coffee. But she stays outside.
‘What did you want, Kateřina?’
‘Nothing in particular.’
Sallow cheeks, pouches under her eyes, lipstick meticulously applied – everything about her is meticulous, in fact. Her hair recently dyed black. She’s still trying to be attractive.
‘I’m going out for the day, Mum.’
‘Who with?’
‘On my own, Mum!’
‘Fibber!’
‘No, really on my own. Don’t worry.’
She looks round and steps away from the door slightly ‘You’re telling me fibs again. Why do you have to as well?’
‘I’m not fibbing. We’ve broken up.’
‘Well take good care of yourself.’
‘Why don’t you believe me?’
‘Don’t cause me grief, Kateřina.’
The door opens. The witch with the coffee pot lets out some of the pale blue light and typewriter din. Is that you, Kateřina – how are you – fine thanks – it suits you, every inch the young lady, where did you buy the skirt, and you’re bigger than your Mum, come on show me, you really are – it’s my hair that does it, I tease it.
‘You’re not up to something are you, Kateřina?’
‘No, I’m not, really Mum.’
She has powdered the wrinkles round her eyes – for that slob, but what’s she supposed to do, now that Daddy avoids her? ‘No, really, Mum. It’s lovely out.’
‘What’s up, Kateřina? You’re being distant, somehow. Don’t stay out late.’
‘No, I won’t.’
She says goodbye to the one-armed watchman. Outside it is bright and sunny and oddly deserted. The rush hour is over. He’s probably just getting up. They get up late in student residences. If only I’d been able to study too. I’d have enjoyed it: preferably biology or literature. But those two would have had to keep me for the four years and where would they have found the money, those penniless pen-pushers? He has to pay for his tart and she has to keep her slob, if she’s going to have any fun any more – I’d sooner hang myself. No thermos flask anywhere, I’ll make a phone call while I’m waiting.
The phone box is empty. She makes herself comfortable, an elbow resting on the shelf and a foot on the ledge in the wall. I’ve got quite nice legs, really, the girls envy me them when I undress, but I’ve got only one twenty-five heller piece. I could try calling you but what’s the point – it’s just a game; to have you come to the phone and shout, Who’s that – Katka? Or is it you, Libuše? How could you have done it to me. You could have let me know, at least. Not that it would make any difference. What if I called Markéta? Have you heard the news? Ota and I have broken up. Would you believe it, he’s been carrying on with that PE instructor of theirs for the past two years and I didn’t know a thing. That time during the holidays when he said he was canoeing – that was with her. I told him myself: there’s no point. I could never do anything like that – we didn’t hit it off anyway. You were always amazed that he and I could, that I never seemed myself with him. It’s only now that I realize it. I feel great now, believe me, although before …
There’s a man knocking on the door of the booth. Every inch the gentleman. I bet he hits his children. Wait a bit, I’ll let you have my twenty-five heller piece, I didn’t use it. Sorry.
The thermos flask is half empty. I’ll stay out on the platform; it’s getting hot. She goes and stands behind the driver and ponders on love for a while. Living without love is not the worst thing: the worst thing is where love has fallen to pieces and is no longer love but a burden. She is pleased with herself for having managed to escape a love that was sure to turn into a burden.
She gets off one stop early and walks past the ugly student residence – his window is closed and the bottom half is stuck over with paper. But she doesn’t stop even for a second. She feels fancy-free, liberated: the whole day is spread out in front of her, her whole life is spread out in front of her – days unimaginable, full of promise. But she is not even thinking about that now, just about today, which is also full of promise.
A car soon pulled up for her, a private car, no less. The suede-jacketed driver opened the door and looked her over quickly. Obviously satisfied, he asked, ‘Where are you off to?’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘If you don’t mind, you don’t mind.’
He drove fast and talked non-stop. He was an expert on animal skins, apparently, and bought and sold them all over the world. He was a bit too tall and bony for her taste, and probably too old as well, even though he was under forty. He spoke very slowly and deliberately, which appealed to her. That was the way she imagined people spoke who had seen things and were possibly important in some way too. It had not been very sensible to have spent all her time with Ota recently, as if he were the only person in the world. Love is definitely the greatest happiness, but at the same time it swallows you up and at the very moment you feel you are living to the full you actually stop living. Countless possible loves, moments and opportunities pass you by and they might be more important and more fulfilling than what you have at that moment, but you’re unaware of them.
In the fields the corn was not yet ripe. The man had now fallen silent. The names of unfamiliar villages, the air shimmering above the road’s surface, a narrow valley and wooded hilltops. If only I could just keep on going like this: the whole day and again the next day and never return, never return anywhere.
The man asked, ‘And you
really don’t care where you’re going?’
‘Really!’ she exclaimed.
‘I’ll show you something.’
Then, even though he really ought to have waited for her reaction, he turned sharply off the main road and sped on in a cloud of whitish dust.
She hadn’t the slightest idea where he intended to take her and not to know where you were heading or what might happen was quite exciting. The car took another turn and they were now travelling along a rough field track in the direction of three solitary buildings.
The man got out, opened the door and quite unnecessarily offered her his hand, giving hers a squeeze in the process. Only now was his full height apparent – he was a born basketball player: ‘I bet this is something you’ve never seen before.’
They entered a bare and deserted yard containing only a rusting pump and several rolls of barbed wire in one corner. She found the emptiness rather oppressive. It was a farm made for a murder. The man went ahead of her with long – rather ludicrously long – and important strides. They passed under a low gateway and suddenly found themselves in a strange, incredible township of thousands of wooden cages. ‘Wait here a moment!’ The stench of animal excrement hung in the air, as well as another smell she could not place.
In front of a building that resembled a garage with an excessively high opening – more like a hangar for a single forgotten aeroplane – stood a grey horse tied to a post with the bark still on it.
She had never before seen a colour like it – like black soil covered in a layer of hoar frost. She wanted to go over to that beautiful creature, but her companion was already returning, taking those ludicrously long and important strides. Actually, she was pleased he was on his way back, because a strange, inexplicable melancholy had settled on the place. Hurrying behind him came a bald fat man with a bunch of keys.
‘What marvellous guests …’ said the fat man. ‘So the young lady is curious about our mink,’ and they passed through the barbed wire entrance between the cages standing on high crossed legs, in which solitary brown creatures ran here and there in confusion.
