No Saints or Angels

Better none than yours, I thought.

I've now discovered that people without ideals are like machines. Machines for churning out words, making money and love, degrading others and exalting themselves, machines for supporting their own egos. Dad had ideals, I'll grant him that. Maybe he really did believe that with his Party in power nobody would go hungry and justice would be established in the world. It was such a blind belief that he couldn't see all the injustices being committed around him. He himself tried to lead an honourable and even abstemious life. He had just one suit for weekdays and the famous wedding suit. When it was cold he would wear the same old beret he'd had since I was a child. He was terse with Mum, but he never left her and I don't think he was ever unfaithful to her. I don't remember ever getting a hug from him, but from time to time he would tell me stories about wise Lenin or Young Pioneers who loved their parents and their homeland. Yes, they were the phrases he'd use, but at the time I was just happy that he sat down by me and spared me a bit of his time. It was only later, after the Soviets invaded and he welcomed them as saviours not occupiers, that I became antagonistic towards everything he praised or believed in.

Almost as soon as I got into medical school — partly due, no doubt, to my class background — I started to let my hair down

and sit around in pubs, drinking, smoking and having a succession of boyfriends. I did it to spite Dad, even though he never knew the whole story, and I felt a sense of satisfaction at going my own way.

'You shouldn't talk about him that way, Kristýna,' my mother scolds me. 'He never meant anything badly. Stalin, or rather the Russians, saved his life. If they'd come a day later he'd have been dead.'

'Or so he'd have you believe.'

'No, that was the way it was. He showed me photos of him taken when he got back from the camp. He looked like a skeleton. A skeleton covered in skin.'

'But that didn't stop him helping set up concentration camps here.'

'Your father never set up any concentration camp.'

'Maybe not, but his Party did.'

'Your father fought the Germans,' she said. 'That's something you should respect him for at least, seeing you know what they did to my mother.'

It's inconsiderate of me to torment her with this sort of talk. Even in the days when I tried to spite Dad by my behaviour, she was the only one I hurt. Dad would only have noticed something that affected him personally, or his career.

I sit down by Mum and take her hand. 'You must stop thinking about him all the time.'

'Who am I supposed to think about, then?'

'You've got us, haven't you?'

Us is me and Lida, my songstress sister who lives down at Tábor and only visits Mum four times a year. Of course there's also Jana, her sweet little granddaughter, who has started to grow wild recently. She sang at her grandfather's funeral — not the 'Internationale', as he'd probably have wanted, but the spiritual 'Twelve Gates to the City'. And me — tired, worn-out and empty: a vase without flowers.

I take the box containing Dad's writings and give Mum a hug and a kiss.

The box is wrapped in Christmas paper and tied with a gold ribbon. It weighs at least ten pounds.

3

It's not yet midday and I'm home again. I rushed to be in time to cook my daughter's lunch, although at her age she could and should be making lunch for her mother.

From her small bedroom comes the sound of drumming. She has a set of two drums and practises on them to the distress of the neighbours. She also strums the guitar fairly well, plays the recorder and has a nice singing voice. Since she got into grammar school she has stopped going to Scouts, but instead she sings and plays in a band called Sons of the Devil. Not long ago she invited me to come and hear them play. They were performing at a disco in a pub outside Prague. The pub was horrible and what they played depressed and disgusted me by turns. She asked me afterwards how I liked it. I didn't tell her it was the sick music of lost souls. I just praised her faultless delivery.

Where are the days when she'd skateboard innocently round the paths of the little local park with a crowd of other kids, terrifying peaceful pensioners? They don't say good things about her at school. She failed her mid-year maths exam and just scraped through in chemistry. And yet she inherited a talent for those subjects and not so long ago she was coaching her classmates. But now she's lost interest. She says she wants to concentrate on music. And to her mind all a musician needs to know is music.

I ought to ban her strumming and drumming, and her slacking. But after all I had a yen to play the violin and my teacher said I had talent, and were it not for my lost violin, or rather for Dad and

his pigheadedness, I might have had a different career, instead of standing by a dentist's chair eight hours a day.

I peep into her room. She is sitting in just a nightie on her unmade bed. Her jeans still lie in a heap on the floor amidst a pile of paper — sheet music most likely. The book that was lying on the chair this morning has sincefallen to the floor and on top of it lies a half-eaten slice of bread; my daughter must have gone to the trouble of making a trip to the kitchen. 'Is that all you've been doing while I've been out?'

'So what? It's Saturday, Mum.' She seems to be in a great mood. She puts down the drumsticks and announces that she has a date with Katya and Marta in the afternoon.

'With those punks?'

She nods.

'Jana, I don't like the crowd you hang around with.'

'They're great friends.'

'Great in what way?'

She shrugs and says uncertainly, 'All ways.' She doesn't say how they spend their time convincing each other that it's right to scorn school, work and people who waste their time working, particularly parents. Their parents admittedly maintain them, but apart from that they're an obstacle to them living the way they'd like to.

She prefers to change the subject. 'Do you think lunch will be ready in time?'

'Are you in a big hurry?'

'I'd like to leave by two. Or rather, I have to.'

'And homework?'

'But Mum, it's Saturday.'

'Yes, you've told me already. When do you mean to be back?'

'But I haven't gone out yet!'

And I'd be happier if you didn't go out at all, I don't tell her. Because I'd sooner have you where I can see you. 'You ought to visit your dad.'

'Sure. I'll go and see him some time.'

'You shouldn't put it off. What are you making that face for?'

'I'm amazed that you of all people should care.'

'Dad's in a bad way.'

'Things were never in a good way with him, were they?'

'I'm talking about his health. You do realize he had a difficult operation?'

'OK, I'll look in on him tomorrow maybe. And I'll steal a rose from the park for him.'

I tell her irritably to save her witticisms for something else.

'Yeah, you're right. That was tasteless of me. I'll buy him a rose or maybe I won't buy him anything, but I'll definitely go round to see him tomorrow.' And she starts to strum the guitar.

That's what she's like these days. She sits there like the Queen of Sheba and hasn't lifted a finger since morning. On the other hand she has driven the neighbours crazy with her drumming, taken the rise out of her ill father and is now hassling me to get lunch ready. On account of this selfish creature I'm run off my feet from morning till night. 'Get yourself dressed straightaway! Then after you've tidied up here you can kindly scrape the potatoes.'

She puts on an obliging or even guilty face. 'For you anything, Mummy.'