This method also proved to be dubious: the bass player (the oldest man in the group) pointed out that it was even more naïve to count on the young woman’s good sense than to rely on her compassion. The logic of the argument would be wide of the mark, while the young woman’s heart would be shattered by her beloved’s refusal to believe her. This would incite her, with tearful determination, to persist still more obstinately in her assertions and her schemes.
There remained the third method: Klima could swear to the expectant mother that he had loved her once and loved her still. He should not make the slightest allusion to the chance that it was another man’s child. On the contrary, Klima would bathe her in trust, tenderness, and love. He would promise her everything, including a divorce from his wife. He would depict their marvelous future together. And in behalf of that future he would then urge her to terminate the pregnancy. He would explain that this was not yet the time to have a child, that its birth would deprive them of the first, most beautiful years of their love.
This line of argument lacked what the preceding ones had in abundance: logic. How could Klima be so smitten with the nurse if he had been avoiding her for two months? But the bass player maintained that lovers always behaved illogically and that there was nothing simpler than explaining this, one way or another, to the young woman. Eventually they all agreed that the third method was probably the most satisfactory, for it would appeal to the young woman’s love for him, the only relative certainty in the situation.
6
They left the theater and scattered at the street corner, but the guitarist accompanied Klima to his door. He was the only one to disapprove of the proposed plan. This plan seemed to him unworthy of the bandleader he revered: “When you go to see a woman, arm yourself with a whip!” said he, quoting the one sentence he knew of Nietzsche’s collected works.
“My boy,” Klima lamented, “she’s the one with the whip.”
The guitarist offered to go with Klima to the spa, lure the young woman out onto the road, and run her over: “Nobody could prove she didn’t throw herself under my wheels.”
The guitarist, the youngest musician in the group, greatly loved Klima, who was touched by his words: “That’s very kind of you,” he said to him.
The guitarist set out his plan in detail and with burning cheeks.
“That’s very kind, but it’s not possible,” said Klima.
“Why are you hesitating? She’s a slut!”
“You’re really very kind, but it’s not possible,” said Klima, taking leave of the guitarist.
7
When he found himself alone, he thought about the young man’s proposal and the reasons that had led him to reject it. It was not that he was more virtuous than the guitarist, but that he was more fearful. The fear of being accused as an accessory to murder was not less than the fear of being declared a father. He saw Ruzena run over by the car, he saw Ruzena stretched out on the road in a pool of blood, and he had a momentary feeling of relief that filled him with joy. But he knew it was useless to indulge in illusions. And he had a serious concern now. He thought of his wife. My God, tomorrow is her birthday!
It was a few minutes before six, and the shops would close at six exactly. He rushed into a florist’s to buy a gigantic bouquet of roses. What a difficult celebration he expected! He would have to pretend to be near her in heart and mind, would have to give himself over to her, show tenderness to her, amuse her, laugh with her, and never for a moment stop thinking about a faraway belly. He would make an effort to utter affectionate words, but his mind would be far away, imprisoned in the dark cell of a stranger’s womb.
He realized that it would be too much for him to spend this birthday at home, and he decided no longer to delay going to see Ruzena.
But this was not an agreeable prospect either. The mountain spa seemed like a desert to him. He knew no one there. Except perhaps for that American taking the waters, who, behaving like a rich bourgeois of the old days, had invited the whole group to his hotel suite after the concert. He had plied them with excellent drink and with women chosen from among the resort’s staff, so that he was indirectly responsible for what happened afterward between Ruzena and Klima. Ah, if only that man, who had shown him such unreserved warmth, were still at the spa! Klima clung to his image as if to a last hope, for in moments such as those he was about to experience a man needs nothing more than the friendly understanding of another man.
He returned to the theater and stopped at the doorkeeper’s cubicle. He picked up the phone and asked for long distance. Soon he heard Ruzena’s voice. He told her he would be coming to see her tomorrow. He made no reference to the news she had announced some hours before. He spoke to her as if they were carefree lovers.
In passing he asked: “Is the American still there?”
“Yes!” said Ruzena.
Feeling relieved, he repeated with somewhat more ease than before that he was greatly looking forward to seeing her. “What are you wearing?” he asked then.
“Why?”
This was a trick he had used successfully for years in telephone banter: “I want to know how you’re dressed right now. I want to be able to imagine you.”
“I’m wearing a red dress.”
“Red must suit you very well.”
“Could be,” she said.
“And under your dress?”
She laughed.
Yes, they all laughed when they were asked this.
“What color are your underpants?”
“Also
