And yet one night it occurs to me to ask him who were the people who went to Slovakia with him and why he has told me so little about them. I ask him in exactly the same way I ask him how he spent the day, what he has read of interest lately or if he knows any new jokes. But I notice that my question doesn't please him. He wants to know why I ask.
'Because I'm interested in you, of course.'
He says hetwas there with the crowd I'd met at the game he invited me to that time. And he hasn't told me about the trip because he didn't think it made any sense to talk about travelling. It's impossible to describe nature, except in poems, and he is no poet. There is also little point in talking about people I don't know. Where something interesting happened, such as the prophecy at the fortune-tellers, he's told me everything she foretold, and since he's been back the unimportant things have already slipped out of his memory I recall him once describing to me how people with bad consciences behave when questioned by his colleagues. How they go into lengthy explanations about why they can't remember anything.
I feel a sudden anxiety. 'So that leggy girl — the one you used to go out with — she was there too then?'
He hesitates a moment before replying, as if considering what answer to give me, or even whether I know or suspect something.
Then he replies that she was there too.
It's late and time we were asleep. A little while ago we made love; he was tender to me. I ought to keep quiet and not keep asking questions. But I'm unable to dispel the anxiety that has seized me.
'She didn't even try to seduce you?' I ask.
He remains silent and then replies with a question: 'Why would she try to seduce me? "We'd broken it off, hadn't we?' He sits up and gets out of bed.
'Where are you going?'
'I'm thirsty.'
He goes off to the kitchen. I can't bear to wait. I put on my dressing gown and follow him. He is pouring wine into two glasses.
'Are you going to have some wine with me?'
'Yes, I feel like some.'
'But you still haven't answered my question.'
'I don't understand why you want to know now, all of a sudden.'
'Now or some other time.'
'But I asked you at the time whether you'd like to come with me,' he reminds me.
'But I wasn't able to. You wanted me to go with you to protect you from your ex-girlfriend?' It dawns on me.
'I don't need protecting. I love you, don't I. That's why I wanted you to come with me.'
He is still avoiding the question.
'But it was night, everyone around was asleep, and she crept into your tent,' I answer for him.
I can see I have rattled him. 'If she's called you and put ideas in your head, don't believe her.'
'She hasn't called me,' I say. 'Nobody has put ideas in my head. It's how I imagine it. If it didn't happen, you'd have told me long ago that she went with you too.'
He says nothing; he doesn't try to contradict me. He admits nothing and denies nothing. He's not a liar and he doesn't know how to be faithful, just like every other man.
'There you are,' I say. 'I don't need a fortune-teller to tell me what happened and what danger I'm in.'
'I love you,' he tells me. 'I didn't stop loving you for a moment.'
'Not even when the other one was in your arms?'
He says nothing. Then he tries to explain it to me: they were going out for almost two years. He didn't want to hurt her. And anyway he hurt her because he told her he didn't want to have anything to do with her any more.
'Because now you've got me.' I complete his thought. 'You don't need to explain anything to me. I'm glad you have consideration for your old girlfriend. It means I can hope you'll show me the same consideration.'
He repeats that he loves me and has never loved anyone else. He tries to explain to me that there are situations when you do something ypu didn't intend to, and you are immediately sorry. He asks me to understand that.
I tell him I am able to have understanding for anything — life had taught me that. But that doesn't mean I can accept everything and come to terms with it. I hate betrayal. I once got divorced on account of it and deprived Jana of a home with a father.
He asks me in umbrage whether he ought to kneel down and ask my forgiveness.
I tell him that I don't like fellows who kneel, and I like even less those who ask if they ought to.
I have the feeling my little boy is at a loss — whether to be offended or to burst into tears. He's not a liar and he doesn't know how to be faithful. Most likely he is regretting that he didn't lie. But he'll soon learn how. Maybe I should be pleased that he doesn't yet know how to lie, but at this moment all I feel is disappointment — and weariness.
'Kristýna,' he begs, 'nothing happened, nothing of any importance. Surely you'll forgive me.'
'I don't know what you expect,' I tell him. 'That I'll advise you? Or that I'll go back to bed with you?'
He hesitates. Then he asks if he ought to go.
I tell him I'd appreciate it if he did.
7
My new nick was called Sunnyside and it immediately struck me that Graveside might be a better name, because the nearest thing was an old abandoned graveyard. Though I have to admit that the sun really did beat down all the time — I got quite a tan during the first few days of my nonenforced stay. You see I had to declare that I'd chosen that nick voluntarily I played up a bit at first but I knew I'd go anywhere to get rid of those vampire witches and where I wouldn't have to listen to the crap from that platinum blonde cow who meant it all for our good. But I said I wasn't going to any loony bin in the middle of a forest; I'd sooner hang myself. Mum tried to persuade me it was for my own good and told me what a fantastic place it was. Dad was born not far from there and lived there at my age, and apparently some of his great-great-great-aunts still live around there somewhere, though I couldn't have given a toss. Mum went on to tell me I wouldn't be there long and it wasn't the end of the world because they had electricity there. I told her that was really something: electricity — I was trembling all over in anticipation. And I asked Mum if they had any fantastic things such as electric chairs, or whether they gave themselves electric shocks after breakfast for fun. Mum got pissed off and said there was no talking to me and told me if I wanted to stay where I was, I could. I started to panic that she might just leave me in that nuthouse and so I told her OK she could send me by rocket to the moon for my own good if she liked.
There were eight of us detoxers at the Graveside by my reckoning — that's including me. Some of them had already been stuck there for six months. Monika was the only one who was just starting her second month and she was planning to split. She told me that before she came there, she'd worked in a hospital. It had been heaven, she said: there were drugs everywhere you looked. They used to nick Rohypnol, for instance, and give the sick old ladies a placebo instead, and then they'd have great trips. From time to time they even managed to get hold of morphine; that was super because then they didn't have to buy expensive muck from Arab dealers. She was screwing some married doctor that she was in love with, but when it got out, the nerd packed her in and all she had left was the dope. She's come to realize that life without drugs has no point anyway and that people are vile by nature.