by Ivan Klíma
‘And you make tea all by yourself?’ Hana asks, disregarding his invitation and realizing that she has never seen his wife during visiting hours, though from his notes she saw he was married.
‘Yes. I would never entrust anyone else with tea-making.’ And for a while he describes the proper way to make tea. Water may be poured on the tea three times: the first time for strength, the second time for taste, the third time for thirst. But in China when you arrive in the evening for a tea session, they just sprinkle tea in the pot and then simply pour on hot water. ‘You see, it’s my conviction,’ he adds, ‘that the person who knows how to drink tea also knows how to forget the din and bustle of everyday life.’
Hana then asks about his wife and what she does, but the journalist brushes the question aside. Klára works in a bar, finishing quite late at night and sleeping through the day, so they scarcely see each other.
Apparently he does not enjoy talking about his wife; maybe there’s something not quite as it should be between them and that was why she did not even come to see him. Perhaps that was the reason for his illness; Hana recognized long ago that most illnesses have their origin in mental not physical pain.
And what does her husband do, the journalist wants to know.
Her husband is a pastor.
‘I’ve never taken coffee with a pastor’s wife. Nor with a pastor, for that matter. My people were unbelievers and I take after them. I must have been in more pagodas than churches. But I only visited them because I was interested in statues of the Buddha.’
‘Do you think it’s possible to live without a faith? Live well, I mean.’
‘The way I see it, Matron, what is more important than faith is to have a good heart. I met a lot of people like that in China. They had no faith, just a good heart. And you’re exactly that sort of person, and that’s why you are able to take loving care of total strangers.’
‘We are all carers.’ Hana is at a loss; she is not used to chatting with men.
‘Of course. But you’re different. I’m sure you’re kind to good and bad alike. Because you can’t help being kind. You remind me a bit of my mother. When she was still very young,’ he quickly adds. ‘She was the best person in the world.’
‘That’s what everyone thinks about their mother.’
‘But she really was an exceptional woman. And I have known both exceptional and selfless women.’ Again he recalls some Chinese women he once met when he first arrived in that country. Their husbands had been jailed or had been sent for re-education to some commune a thousand kilometres away and everything had fallen on those women: caring for their families and earning a living so that their children did not die of hunger. And in China, particularly for women, that meant working until they dropped. But they did not complain and bore their fate with humility and courage.
‘Maybe they were ashamed of complaining in front of you, a foreigner.’
‘Maybe,’ he concedes. ‘But all the same, their patience and composure was remarkable. And they waited loyally for their husbands.’
He then goes on to tell her about a massive flood he once witnessed on the Yellow River. The water got into the houses and barns, carrying away livestock, chattels and even people. The women behaved just like the men. They would carry a hundredweight of earth in baskets on their backs, those little women, to help repair the dikes and save what could be saved. It was impossible to save anything anyway, as water is such a mighty element and in that plain there wasn’t even the tiniest mound you could climb up above the water.
Hana listens to him with interest. She likes the way he speaks nicely about women, even if they were women from a country she will never set eyes on.
‘And weren’t you afraid?’ she asks him and says that she is afraid of water; water has always played a baneful role in her life, and almost killed her once.
Matouš starts to apologize for bringing water into his narrative but China is all water: rivers, enormous rivers flowing across the plains and between weird-shaped cliffs. And canals and rice paddies. In their paintings and songs, the surface of the water glistens in the moonlight. The trigram ‘k’an’ denotes water, rain and also danger. As to whether he was afraid, at such a moment one thinks of what one ought to do, not about the danger. The same thing applies to an earthquake. But during an earthquake everything happens so fast that one doesn’t even have time to be afraid. One either lives or not. Perhaps if he were trapped somewhere under rubble he might be afraid. He goes on to tell Hana about a volcanic eruption he witnessed during his one and only visit to Washington State. The volcano had a beautiful name – Helena – but what he saw was terrifying. It looked just like an atomic explosion. The entire mountain top blew off. He just stared at it and in those first seconds it didn’t even occur to him that his life was at risk. It looked like a fantastic film effect. It finally came home to him when the cloud of ash and smoke started to drift towards him. All of a sudden he realized he couldn’t breathe. And it started to turn dark in the middle of the day.
While Matouš is telling stories, he draws in the air with his finger: the plain, the water, the river winding through the rocks, and the mountain top flying off. Hana notices he has a pretty hand with fine, almost feminine fingers.
‘But do you know what I found most astonishing of all was not the darkness at noon, nor the solidifying lava, nor the burning trees, but the silence. Not the cheep of a bird, not the chirp of a cricket – not even the buzz of a fly. Most of the people around me found it horrifying but for me it brought back the words of the Chinese sage: In the sky symbols arise, on the earth shapes are formed. And also: What first rises to the sky must fall to earth. And instead of being horrified, I was aware of the greatness of nature.’ Matouš relates terrible experiences yet smiles all the while at Hana. When Hana expresses surprise at his smile, he explains that when he experiences something of that kind he is actually happy: that he survived and that he has enriched his life, his experience. And that was something he always longed for, particularly while he was young – to experience something, to understand something and then tell people about it.
‘Tell them what?’ Daniel was possessed by that need too. It is a male characteristic. Daniel retells an ancient message, trying to inflame even the hearts of those who seemed bent on taking the opposite view. Because of it they had lived in poverty and had to live for a time in a remote village. And they had not been allowed to travel at all.
‘That’s not easy to answer in a few words. At one time I had an urge to tell people at least something about the world they were not allowed to see: what it looked like, how the people behaved, the way they thought, what customs they had. You see, the world was divided into two in those days. Our part was good, the other part was bad: now it’s the other way round, in a sense. Nevertheless there is only one world and it is both good and bad. Most important of all, it is threatened by what we do in it. We rush forward somewhere without looking to right or left. That’s something you become aware of in that place, where, since time immemorial, they have acknowledged values other than just progress and the pursuit of success and change. When you return you are bound to ask: where will it all end? And your answer is: in the end we will destroy ourselves and life in general.’
‘People always expect catastrophe,’ Hana says. ‘At one time people actually expected the end of the world. My husband often talks about it in sermons: how the sun will turn black, the moon will run blood, the stars start to fall to earth and the skies disappear. It’s a horrifying thought.’
‘That’s true,’ the journalist admits, and he excitedly starts to tell her how these used to be only nightmares. The beast rising out of the sea had seven heads and ten horns. The Hindus believe that when the age of Kali arrives, the gods will massacre each other, the earth will be engulfed by fire and water, and there will be a return to the chaos that reigned before Creation. The Persians believed that life would perish in the convulsions of the earth, after which would come fire, flood and the
fall of the heavens. It was always something that would come irrevocably by a higher will. Nowadays we are preparing our destruction ourselves because we are too attached to material things. Man should fix his mind on other values. He should seek the love that sees and is wise, as well as harmony and the fundamentals of the order that rules the universe.
‘My husband says everything happens by the will of God. Without it, not a hair will grow, or fall from the head. But he also appeals for love.’ It is odd how easy she finds it to talk to this man. She would never dare broach such subjects in front of Daniel. Daniel was too learned, serious, genuine and responsible. She would be afraid of blurting out in front of him something that would betray her ignorance. She finishes her coffee. ‘Thank you for inviting me,’ she says, ‘and for the coffee.’
He asks her then where her husband preaches, and she tells him.
‘I must come and hear him some time. Maybe I’d get to see you at the same time.’
She takes her leave of him. She can’t fathom out why he should want to see her again, but when she emerges from the smoky and noisy room she realizes her mood has improved, and she actually feels vaguely pleased. Someone has felt it worth his while to spend some time with her.
5
Captain Bubník lived in a four-storeyed house in Vokovice. As Daniel mounted the staircase he was unable to dispel a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He always used to feel something similar when he was summoned to an interrogation or to the office of the Secretary for Church Affairs.
The State Security was no more, even the police uniforms had changed, but the incidents and experiences of the past had not disappeared, they remained – indelibly – lodged in people’s memories.
He rang a doorbell on the third floor. The door was opened by a little grey-haired old lady in a flowery apron.
He introduced himself and she said she knew who he was and that her husband was expecting him. Then she asked if he preferred coffee, tea or beer, maybe. He refused everything, still obedient to the old wisdom that it was better not to accept anything from such people. By now a man appeared in the doorway, and having overcome all his distaste and embarrassment, Daniel announced himself.
‘Is that the pastor?’ A slightly corpulent seventy-year-old with a grey deadpan face, rather gingery eyebrows and senilely expressionless eyes behind cheap spectacles stepped towards him. ‘You’re very welcome.’ The man shook his hand firmly like an old friend he was meeting after many years. He led Daniel into the room which looked 100 per cent mass-produced, from the carpet on the floor to the pictures on the walls and the ceiling lamp.
‘Pastor,’ he repeated when they were seated at the chipboard table. ‘That’s an honourable calling, caring for souls and their salvation. I’ve been retired for thirteen years now. I always used to say what a treat it would be not to have to get up in the morning, except that these days I wake up at 4 a.m. and I’m not able to go back to sleep. More aches and pains, fewer joys and pleasures. You mentioned your father in your letter, didn’t you?’
‘I understand you,’ he said when he had heard him out, ‘those pirate lists caused a lot of harm. And above all among the survivors, because they weren’t able to seek redress. Where they had been wronged.’
‘Were they often?’
‘It depends what you mean by wronged, Reverend.’
‘Wronged is probably not the right word. Duped or misled would be more accurate, seeing that people were often included on the list without their knowledge.’
‘I shouldn’t think so, Reverend. And anyway it’s neither here nor there. Some didn’t sign and even made things up; others signed and you didn’t get anything important from them anyway.’
‘And my father?’
‘Your father, your father. He was a doctor, you say. Dr Vedra?’
He looked as if he was trying to call the name to mind. Then he shook his head. ‘I’ve got a bad memory for names. There was a time when I could remember all sorts of things, I knew all the Sparta football team line-ups for the previous twenty years, but nowadays – you know what it’s like for old people.’
‘I’ve brought a photograph.’ Daniel took an envelope containing two likenesses out of his bag. As he passed it across he had the impression of doing something dishonourable. As if it was he, now, who was acting as an informer by offering a picture of his own father.
‘Yes,’ said the man opposite, ‘the face is familiar. At least I think so. On the other hand, nothing definite comes to my mind. After all, it’s thirty-five years ago or thereabouts. Are you able to remember people you dealt with thirty-five years ago?’
‘I used to deal with people in a different fashion. And yes, I do remember the people who attended church.’
‘You’ve got a good memory, and you’re younger. But I will tell you one thing: the fact I don’t remember means your father was totally insignificant. From the point of view of being of any use, I mean. The big fish – the ones that really meant something – you remember them even after all those years.’
‘Can’t you recall even a single interview?’
‘No I can’t, really. Don’t forget that I was given the boot from there. After that you try to forget it all. I had other worries. The only ones that stuck in my memory were those that stood out in some way. From the intelligence point of view, I mean. As well, of course, as the ones we pumped regularly. They were the ones that yielded a lot. Your father was definitely not one of them.’ He leaned over towards Daniel and said, ‘There’s no sense in investigating it like this. You must know best of all the sort of person your father was. Even if there were some files still around and you got access to them, you wouldn’t learn much from them because everything was far more complicated than anything you might read there’
‘Thank you. I expect you’re right.’
‘Your see, people these days over-dramatize everything. They’ve got the idea that it was only scoundrels, brutes and fanatics who worked with us. But we were normal people. At the beginning we believed, like a lot of others, that socialism would bring something better than what we had. Anyone who resisted it seemed to us like an enemy. But when you started to analyse things, you soon lost your enthusiasm. We only did as much as we had to.’
‘I also had some encounters with some of your people,’ said Daniel. ‘It’s possible that the people who dealt with me only did what they had to, but it was plenty, I assure you. But that is neither here nor there at this moment.’
‘Yes, you’re a pastor. The way the church was treated was crazy, absolutely mindless. We are all reaping the dire consequences of that now. People nowadays only believe in property, money and their careers.’
He was unable to fathom whether the man was putting it on, or whether he was saying what he truly felt.
Then Daniel realized that this man had once sat at a desk with portraits of the murderer Stalin and his local Czech satrap on the wall behind him, while his father had sat facing him, the indelible experience of eight years in the camps imprinted on his mind, and an understandable feeling of tension. His father would have known he had to give some sort of answer, and whether he left the room a relatively free person was entirely up to the person who now sat opposite his son Daniel with a friendly expression on his face, talking to him as if they were jointly engaged in the struggle against present-day materialism. The man could not recall his father, he had just been one of the many they had summoned whenever they needed them. Whereas his father, if he were still alive, would certainly have remembered him. This captain had been one of just a few of those who had attached themselves like leeches to his father’s life. Later this man had disgraced himself and maybe then some other captains had latched on to him, so that he now felt justified in bemoaning his reduced state. Any sense of humility, let alone repentance, was foreign to such people. And by coming to see him, he, Daniel, had bolstered the man’s feelings that he was one of the just, one of the victims, someone worthy of honour, praise and trust.
/> Suddenly he felt disgusted at his action in coming here and the fact that he was meekly sitting and listening and scarcely taking issue. He stood up, saying he had no wish to stay any longer, thanked him and prepared to leave.
‘Should you ever need any advice,’ said the erstwhile captain, or just feel like dropping in for a chat, you’ll be very welcome!’
6
Matou
Matouš Volek is not in particularly good form. His appetite is not returning and his stomach hurts from time to time. He can’t go to the pub or to any of the offices of the journals he works for. This is the third day he has been entirely alone and to cap it all it is Sunday morning and holy days have always depressed him. He spends a little while playing with the seven tangram dice but fails to build any interesting picture. So he tries to call up a number of friends but nobody answers the phone. They are probably at their weekend country places or at the seaside.
It’s hot. Matouš gets up and puts on the big ceiling fan. The fan whines, which Matouš finds irritating, but at the same time its noise and the movement of the hot air remind him of cheap hotels in China or Singapore. He searches among his CDs for the one with Chinese music with its sense of the unusual that always soothes him. While listening to the ‘Moon Mirrored in the Waters’ he makes himself a pot of red tea and then goes to sit in the old armchair with its worn leather cover.
A white screen and behind it the lively gestures of the puppets. Gongs and Mongolian fiddles. Wooden clappers. The somersaults of the actors in their pure silk costumes. Wu-tan in a red robe and wielding a sword.
