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 narrow 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