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
