Lovers for a Day

by Ivan Klíma

  She is tired. It is a strange, hopeless exhaustion that does not even desire sleep. Besieged by this exhaustion she switches on the light. It’s odd to think that she was in this room yesterday morning. It’s as if it all happened long ago, and she was standing at the end of it, or rather as if she was already standing at the beginning of a completely new time. She undresses slowly although she has yet to pull out the bed. On her skirt she discovers the shameful dark red stain, now almost black. It was such a beautiful skirt. And she feels like weeping over the white pleated skirt, over her tiredness and over herself, and she goes out into the passage and fills the washbasin with water. Then she takes the big ball of blue twine, but she has scarcely unwound a few metres when she is overcome with revulsion and rewinds it. And when she has washed off the stain she hangs the skirt over the ironing board. What am I to do now?

  She switches off the light and sits down in the rocking chair, and at that moment it strikes her that love is actually like life. You know it’s going to end badly, that it’s going to end too soon and there is no hope of its lasting, but you go on living all the same. And so people love – in the same way they live – longing for it to last but without any hope of its lasting. They love with their eyes closed and with an uneasiness that permeates their happiness, and they don’t think and don’t want to think.

  The night air creeps in through the closed window. So near to the sky but the stars are dim. In the far distance there is the pale flash of lost lightning and then darkness falls once more, the quiet outpouring of darkness, and gradually, like a mirage, there emerge the outline of the first tower and the soaring chimney, and the plinth for a statue without a statue, and lower and lower. The windows are dark; behind them they are all asleep: those who build the monuments, and those who knock them down, those who light the lights and those who put them out, those who study and those who hate all those who study, those who love each other and those who flee towards love, those who have never known love, and those who betray, and those who flee from betrayal into the arms of pathetic slobs in search of sympathy at least, and those in the stripy clothes and those who watch them, and those who await their arrival with painful anxiety, and those who torture their own love with worrying.

  And I’ll go down and be like them under the dim light of the street lamps and someone will catch sight of me and say, You’re our little sister. You’re so alone there. Come with us. And I’ll go anywhere, but I’ll go – and I’ll float and fall, so long as … and higher and higher right up to the silhouette of the last tower and the soaring chimney, and the stars, the tiny, enormous stars, and she half closes her eyes, and the stars gradually go out, and instead it is here standing in front of her with its grey coat and long grey mane, the ground dusted with hoar frost, the meadow stretching from horizon to horizon and moving through it is an entire enormous herd of similarly graceful creatures and she is lying in the middle of the meadow and watching and cannot understand how anyone could kill these splendid creatures because of ugly little caged animals and she watches the horses shake their proud heads and can see the enormous herd come closer together and then move apart, and sees them make love – horses – in the middle of the meadow, in the middle of their single day and their single night, with their soft manes, those free horses, lovers for a single night in the middle of a long eternal silent night, and sees a foal running through the herd on spindly legs. My little brothers, she whispers, and no longer feels anxiety. Her tiredness has been soaked up by the hay of the meadow and she is so light that she can fall and float. And thus she sleeps, half undressed, in the rocking chair, while beyond the opening in the roof the day dawns and the foul-smelling city day descends on the room and the free end of the blue twine swings almost imperceptibly to and fro in the invisible draught.

  (1964)

  THE ASSEMBLY LINE

  1

  What a morning, a totally uncitylike morning, blue sky above the rooftops, a sky like a seascape, wouldn’t it be great to be sailing on it, and fields, it’d be great: ever onwards, if only it were possible to go onwards for ever, never land, never disembark, just ever onwards and the sun would go on rising and you as well, don’t just stand there gawking, move along and climb aboard, the tram full of heat, the stench of bodies, suddenly his legs went to jelly, because he didn’t manage to have a wash, and the day ahead of him – there was still a chance, but only if the workshop collapsed or there was a plague, CLOSED DUE TO PLAGUE, then I’d head off with Ladya, closed due to plague, oh, Jesus, maybe Eva would go too, even though she went and got married, pity, we’d all head off, closed due to plague, there was still a chance today; he dashed towards the gate and from a distance he could make out a white notice, the letters blurred, closed, if only it said closed, but it was only an announcement of a meeting for all staff, he should have known, he spat, the time clock, the mechanical watchdog, the unsmiling watchdog of your life, open your jaws you beast, six-o-four, he dashed past the watchman and across the grey yard full of swirling ash, pushed the door open with his shoulder, workshop number one, past the rumbling presses, Anča cutting tin as usual, it’s already given her a back like a hazel stick, like a bow, they should cut you out a hole in the ground, you wouldn’t have to bend so much - if I were an engineer … but then who’d care about you, another door and he could already see them standing in that never-ending never-changing row, as every month, as on every summer day and every rainy and miserable and snowy day and on the day he died too if only he could come and take a look then: at one end a bald patch at the other end Eva – hair rinsed the colour of a duckling, she’s got married, can’t be helped – an empty space alongside Ladya, that’s mine, one big and three small cogs in the right hand, two small axles in the left, slide them on, let them click into place, test them, then take four screws and screw them into the holes, hang it up, the foreman’s standing in for me now, he’s not foreman any more, he’s me, that’s the kind of place it is: whoever turns up (it could be a preacher or a tight-rope walker, a one-legged deaf wrestler; he could have been that morning at his mother’s funeral or come from his first time with a girl) that same day would have to take one big and three small cogs in his right hand and reach for the axles with his left. The foreman’s gaze was fixed on the hands of the clock, that was something he could do while he was working, everyone could, stare and think, and even think, while the index finger of his right hand fitted the axle exactly into the holes in the casing. The foreman opened his mouth full of greyish porcelain teeth, there’s going to be another speech like on television, move off instead, Jesus, it’s only six-ten, nine in fact, but it’ll soon be ten, while I look at it and the foreman goes on gassing, anyway it’s a waste of … one big and three small cogs, now he’s finished, Marie’s wearing a sweater of some kind today, one big cog, it’s all hot air anyway, one day he’ll come and he won’t find me here, believe me, that’s one day I’d just love to be here, what bliss, and just to look at his face, except that by then I’ll be riding my own horse, four screws, screw them in the holes … at last he’s … and it’s peaceful, the conveyor belt moves along quietly, take it off and hang it up, Marie’s screwdriver squeaks, six-sixteen, an odd stain on the white wall, a strange bluish blotch. He chased it down a totally white road, through an alley of damp-leaved cherry trees, steam rose from the meadows, hi there! under the trees two fellows jumped up and waved madly.

  He stopped.

  Sorry, something terrible’s happened. He’s dead, most likely.

  They made him follow them with his motorbike across the field. The tyres became clogged with red clay. He was lying behind a thick hedge. His shirt torn, blood – a fish-shaped knife sticking out of his chest. He leaned over the man. But of course, he assured himself, the blade went straight into the heart. Was he anything to do with you?

  No, thank goodness.

  He flexed the dead man’s elbow, this man must have died just a moment ago, and then he noticed the footprints running directly from there, the narro
w footprints of a woman, little indents left by the heels, he kick-started the motor, for a few more moments he could still hear that cry of despair, what could he … and he was already dashing off on the trail like a bloodhound. The motor howled up the hill; it’s going to suffer again. Now he had to give some thought to where he was actually going, what sort of trail he was following, what he was letting himself in for. He inhaled the deep chill of the forest, a mossy chill, rotting pine needles, slimy roots, pale tree fungi. She stumbled along just ahead of him, still trying to escape. A feeble, desperate attempt. Why are you running away, I might … she turned her face to him and he could make out eyes wide with fear – dog-brown eyes.

  Was that your … ?

  No.

  Yes, it’s okay. I could tell.

  He liked the look of her. She was so extremely, so incredibly, beautiful. Whatever had happened for her to … He lifted her up cautiously. She had to sit behind him. The touch of her fingers passed through his flanks like drops of warm rain, like kisses and made him shudder. At last it was here, the big moment, at last he could just go on, driving ever onwards, day and night, never stopping, and the low swaying woods rushing past, damp rocks and still the touch of her fingers and her warm breath.

  ‘This is awful shoddy stuff,’ Ladya protested. ‘Look, this is the third one today.’ And he tossed the part into the crate behind him.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I came looking for you yesterday with Libuše. We were going for a swim.’

  Six thirty-seven. The first ray of sunlight shot through the window and landed on the table just in front of him.

  ‘It’s going to be another scorcher,’ said Ladya. ‘Can’t you make it today at all? You could bring that girlfriend of yours, that Blanka.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ After all, his yacht was already swaying in the breeze out there in the gulf ready to sail. He was lying with Matt on the green deck: the tom-cat was asleep in the unbearable burning heat of the sun. The water stank. On the nearby shore they were madly dancing the twist and he observed the gyrating couples through his telescope; a white-trousered saxophonist, sailors, girls in almost transparent dresses. They staggered in rhythm. He liked the one in the cherry-red dress: tanned legs and almost-white hair. And her back virtually bare. Would you care to dance?

  She shrugged.

  I expect she can’t understand me, but so what … He gestured with his head and she set off after him, down the stone steps and the wooden gangplank across the narrow strip of water separating his boat from the shore. He sent Matt off below deck, started the engine and sat down at the wheel. She was sitting side-on to him, her legs dangling over the side of the boat and almost skimming the green waves and white surf-those naked, tanned legs.

  Don’t sit there like that! And when she didn’t budge he secured the wheel. The smooth, naked, tanned shoulders. She turned her face to him. She moved her lips: where were they heading, or, or … There was no reply to that anyway, so instead he said, Babe, you’re fantastic, I’m really gone on you, you’re like a … a … He leaned over her and she opened her lips slightly, ever so slightly, the narrowest of gaps, but even so he caught sight of pure whiteness, he continued to grip her shoulders and it suddenly felt as if they were gradually leaning backwards and he leaned over with them and then fell and almost cried out except that it was a light, unbearably light, dizzy fall, he checked himself mid-way, his left hand was already fitting the axle, but his right had let go of the cogs, the conveyor belt had stopped, ten to eight. Marie was still tightening screws, but then she put down her screwdriver, stretched herself slightly and sat down on an upturned crate. ‘I feel so …’ she said.

  He wiped his hands on his trousers and moved back several paces to where he had a little three-legged cobbler’s stool ready and waiting and pulled a sandwich out of his pocket – he wasn’t hungry but he never knew what to do during the first break. The others were sitting around, holding forth. He had never had the gift of the gab and anyway he still couldn’t get used to the fact he wasn’t an apprentice any more and had the same rights as everyone else; they even turned and talked in his direction too. He sat there on the cobbler‘s stool, tall and thin, staring at them, chewing slowly.

  Then he got up and had to go round the whole conveyor belt, and through the narrow concrete alley between the machines. A layer of dust stuck to the windowpanes but it was still possible to see the narrow yard through them. A few dozen motorbikes stood there, one old chestnut tree was shedding its blossoms, and above the yard, above the dark sooty wall, towered an enormous chimney, and above that the sky, a sky as narrow as the yard. It was still clear blue.

  It’s going to be another real scorcher. He had just two minutes left. Between this window and the next stood an aquarium on an iron base. Eva stood by it holding a white cardboard cone in her long fingers and her yellow rinse glinted like metal in the sunlight.

  ‘Well,’ he strolled over to her, ‘how are your whales doing?’ And he watched the translucent fish rush to the surface and snap at the food.

  ‘Be thankful we’ve got them here.’ She had a voice like pond water. She got married only a few weeks ago. She must have hooked him with that voice of hers or maybe it was the effect of that yellow rinse when she’s standing with the sun behind her.

  The two of them made their way back through the concrete alley between the machines; a pity, if only she hadn’t got married … He went and stood in his place, taking the one big and three small cogs with his right hand. The axle was already fitted. Then he inserted the four screws, hung it up and took one big and three small cogs in his right hand and two small axles in his left. The loudspeaker on the opposite wall crackled for a moment and made an announcement.

  ‘If only they’d stop that rubbish,’ said Ladya, ‘and put some proper music on.’

  Marie switched off her screwdriver for a moment: ‘I wouldn’t mind being the one who put the records on, though.’

  The voice fell silent; they were playing a polka as it happened to be on top of the pile.

  Some dream, he thought to himself, sitting there in an office playing records. Jesus some dream. They’re not allowed to play anything decent anyway; people would listen and stop working. ‘A fat lot of fun that would be,’ he said to Marie, but she was most likely lost in thought again; all she could ever think about was her bloke. That’s where he had an advantage: he could leap on to his horse and ride off whenever he wanted to. If it wasn’t for that damn music … He used to like music and singing, but that loudspeaker with its constant … He hated music now, any kind. Luckily he was able to ignore it. So get on, get on, the familiar voice of the doctor shouted at him. What are you waiting for? That woman’s at death’s door and this is her only hope, and he slipped a small package into the saddle bag. Now he leaped into the saddle and galloped along the dusty path beside the banana plantation, the unrelenting and motionless sun blazing ahead of him, and then the trail came out on to a strange plain of cactuses: tall bulging stems with fat leaves which threw shadows here and there; tiny hummingbirds flew above them and huge butterflies sailed over the bright red flowers. He liked the butterflies, the way they soared, brightly coloured like neon signs. They helped him forget the extreme heat. He laid his head on the horse’s neck and closed his eyes slightly so that all he could see now were swirling rainbow-coloured specks, they were the specks of the hummingbirds and the cactus flowers and huge butterflies and he was delighted to be flying through this parched landscape and able to see so many rainbow colours. Then he caught the sound of nearby drums. They were probably part of an incantation against the poison – and what else could they do since he was carrying the only remedy in his saddle bag?

  She was lying on a white mattress in a low hut woven from sugar cane. Her skin was very dark and her eyes were already blind.

  He took out the syringe. He was still surrounded by people and when he stuck the needle into the dusky arm he could see the liquid slowly disappear from the glass tube.
>
  She’ll be better by evening, he announced to the old man who had been standing at his side throughout. They emerged from the hut and the man asked him, How shall I repay you?

  He replied, I am merely doing my duty. And in fact he really did not want anything, he was very happy to be able to do what he had done, to ride across the dusty plain and help a woman; if you were able to give her to me, he thought to himself, but said nothing and the man couldn’t understand why he refused money, that he was genuinely happy to be doing something he really liked.

  ‘In fact I don’t know if we’ll be going,’ said Ladya.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s a drag … And then there’s the meeting,’ he added with annoyance. ‘How are you supposed to feel like going anywhere after that?’

  ‘That’s a fact,’ he said, almost relieved. He now picked up one big and three small cogs with his right hand and two small axles with his left, slid them on, let them click into place, tested them, then took four screws and inserted them into the holes.

  Unless you gave me a butterfly, he suggested, a blue butterfly. But his horse was tired and out of breath by now – the butterfly flapped around like a piece of crêpe paper that had torn itself away from some decorations at a village fete; Jesus, it’s nine already, forty more minutes to go before the main break: I’ll have a pickled herring today and a glass of that black muck – our Coca-Cola. He picked up one big and three small cogs with his right hand and two small axles with his left, gazing all the while at the white wall opposite: it looked like a flour sack, maybe if he breathed out hard enough the bag would collapse and cover him in floury darkness; he closed his eyes slightly and spurred his horse.