us, and nobody else in between. Do you understand me?'
'Oh no, that's not possible, I can't agree to that, I never could,' Ruzena protested.
She said this not because she was convinced of it deep down. The definitive word she had gotten from Dr. Skreta two days earlier was so fresh that she was still disconcerted. She was not following a minutely
calculated plan but was completely absorbed by the idea of her pregnancy, which she was experiencing as a great event and still more as a stroke of luck and an opportunity that would not so easily come again. She was like a pawn reaching the end of the chessboard and becoming a queen. She was delighted by the thought of her unexpected, unprecedented power. She saw that at her summons things had been set in motion, the famous trumpeter coming from the capital to see her, to take her for a drive in a magnificent car, to make declarations of love to her. No doubt there was a connection between her pregnancy and that sudden power. If she did not wish to give up her power, she could not give up her pregnancy.
That is why the trumpeter had to go on rolling his heavy stone uphill. 'Darling, it's not a family I want, it's love. For me, you are love, and when there's a child, love gives way to family. To boredom. To worries. To monotony. Lover gives way to mother. For me, you're not a mother but a lover, and I don't want to share you with anyone. Even with a child.''
These were beautiful words, and Ruzena heard them with pleasure but shook her head: 'No, I couldn't. It's just as much your child. I couldn't get rid of your child.'
Unable to find new arguments, he kept repeating the same words and dreading that she would finally see through their hypocrisy.
'You're over thirty. Haven't you ever wanted a child?'
True, he had never wanted a child. He loved Kamila too much for her to be hampered by the presence of a child. What he had just asserted to Ruzena was not pure invention. He had in fact been uttering exactly the same words to his wife for years, sincerely, without deceit.
'You've been married six years and don't have a child. It thrills me so to think of giving you a child.'
He saw that everything was going against him. The exceptional nature of his love for Kamila convinced Ruzena of his wife's infertility and inspired misplaced audacity in the nurse.
It began to grow chilly, the sun was sinking toward the horizon, time was passing, Klima went on repeating what he had already said, and Ruzena repeated her 'No, no, I couldn't.' He felt that he was at a dead end; he no longer knew what to do and thought he was going to lose everything. He was so nervous he forgot to hold her hand, forgot to kiss her, forgot to put tenderness into his voice. He realized this with dread and tried hard to pull himself together. He stopped, smiled at her, and took her in his arms. It was a tired embrace of fatigue. He clasped her to him, his head pressed against her face, and it was actually a way of leaning on her, of resting, catching his breath, because it seemed to him that he lacked strength for the long road still ahead.
But Ruzena too had her back against the wall. Like him she had run out of arguments, and she felt you could not go on for long merely repeating 'no' to a man you wanted to win.
The embrace lasted a long while, and when Klima let Ruzena slip out of his arms she lowered her head and said in a resigned tone: 'All right, tell me what I should do.'
Klima could not believe his ears. These were sudden and unexpected words, and they were an immense relief. So immense that he had to make a great effort to control himself and not show it too clearly. He caressed the young woman's cheek and said that Dr. Skreta was a friend of his and all Ruzena had to do was appear before the committee in three days. He would go with her. She had nothing to be afraid of.
Ruzena didn't protest, and he regained the desire to continue playing his role. He put his arm around her shoulders and again and again stopped talking to kiss her (his joy was so great that the kisses were once more obscured by a veil of mist). He repeated that Ruzena should move to the capital. He even repeated his words about a trip to the seashore.
Then the sun disappeared below the horizon, the darkness deepened in the forest, and a round moon appeared above the tops of the fir trees. They went back to the car. As they were reaching the road they found themselves in a beam of light. For a moment they thought it was the headlights of a passing car, but it became instantly obvious that the light was focused on them. The beam was coming from a motorcycle parked on the other side of the road; a man was on it, watching them.
'Hurry up, let's go. Please!' said Ruzena.
When they were near the car, the man on the motorcycle got off and moved toward them. Klima could only make out a dark silhouette because the parked motorcycle was lighting the man from behind, and the trumpeter had the light in his eyes.
'Come here!' the man shouted, rushing toward Ruzena. 'I have to talk to you. We've got things to talk about! A lot of things!' His voice was tense and confused.
The trumpeter too was tense and confused, and all he could feel was a kind of irritation at the lack of respect: 'The young lady is with me, not with you,' he announced.
'You too, I have to talk to you, you know!' the stranger screamed at the trumpeter. 'You think because you're famous you can do anything you want! You figure you're going to play games with her! That you can turn her head! It's very easy for you! I could do the same thing if I were you!'
Ruzena took advantage of the motorcyclist's focus on the trumpeter to slip into the car. The motorcyclist leaped toward the door. But the window was closed and the young woman turned on the radio. The car resounded with loud music. Then the trumpeter also slipped into the car and slammed the door. The music was deafening. Through the windshield they could only make out the silhouette of a screaming man and his gesticulating arms.
'He's a madman who's always following me,' said Ruzena. 'Quick, please let's get going!'
10
He parked the car, took Ruzena to Karl Marx House, gave her a kiss, and when she disappeared behind the door, felt as tired as after four sleepless nights. It was getting late. Klima was hungry and didn't feel even strong enough to take the wheel and drive. He yearned to hear soothing words from Bertlef and walked across the park to the Richmond.
Arriving at the entrance, he was struck by the sight of a large poster lit by a street lamp. His name was on it in big, clumsy letters, and below it, in smaller letters, were the names of Dr. Skreta and the piano-playing pharmacist. The poster had been done by hand and included an amateur drawing of a golden trumpet.
The trumpeter considered it a good omen that Dr. Skreta had arranged the concert promotion so quickly, because such speed seemed to indicate that Skreta was a man he could count on. He went up the stairs in a hurry and knocked at Bertlefs door.
There was no answer.
He knocked again, and again there was no answer.
Before he could think whether he was arriving at the wrong time (the American was known for his many relationships with women) his hand pushed down on the door handle. The door was unlocked. The trumpeter went into the room and stopped. He could see nothing. Nothing but a glow coming from a location on
the wall of the room. It was a strange glow; it did not resemble the white light of a fluorescent tube or the yellow one of an electric bulb. It was a bluish light, and it filled the whole room.
Then a belated thought reached his imprudent fingers and suggested to him that he was possibly being indiscreet by intruding, without the slightest invitation, on people at a late hour. Afraid of being rude, he stepped back into the corridor and quickly closed the door.
But he was so confused that instead of leaving he remained standing at the door, striving to understand that strange light. He wondered if the American might be naked in his room and taking a sunbath under an ultraviolet lamp. But then the door opened and Bertlef appeared. He was not naked, he was wearing the same outfit he had worn in the morning. He smiled at the trumpeter: 'I am glad you have come by to see me. Come in.'
The trumpeter entered with curiosity, but the room was now lit by an ordinary ceiling lamp.
'I'm afraid I've disturbed you,' said the trumpeter.
'Not at all!' Bertlef responded, pointing to the window where the trumpeter thought he had seen the source of
