Kristýna and I have met a few times and had dinner together: once it was a cold supper at her place, and on about three other occasions I invited her out to restaurants. Since the night I admitted to her that Věra came into my tent we haven't made love. I don't think it's just on account of my one stupid moment of vacillation. Kristýna seems to have changed; she seems to have lost the enthusiasm she once showed for everything, and which attracted me to her in the first place. She keeps on repeating that she is tired. I told her she needed to take it easy and take a holiday, but she said it was world-weariness and no holiday would rid her of it.
She ought to realize that it is weariness due to the sort of life she leads.
Not long ago we were walking up some stairs together and I noticed how breathless she was. 'Don't be surprised,' she told me. 'My lungs are full of tar.' She also drinks more than she should. When I was still sleeping at her place from time to time, she would pour herself a glass of wine first thing in the morning. No wonder she's tired.
I still pine for her, but our occasional meetings haven't seemed to be getting anywhere; they have lacked any climax: we don't embrace; we talk but we no longer touch each other, not even verbally. We are becoming cooler to each other, or at least I am, although I regret it.
Today was Friday the thirteenth; I went to work fearing the worst. My fears were vindicated. First thing this morning our new director called me in and told me they would have to dispense with my services. He had received an order to reduce staff levels and I was the youngest. I wouldn't be the only one anyway, so it would be a good idea to come to a gentleman's agreement before he drew up a dismissal notice.
As if youth could be a reason for dismissal anyway We both know the real reason, of course. I had tried too hard to do my job properly and unravel what could be unravelled.
I told him I'd have to think it over, but I don't think I feel like resigning voluntarily and going quietly. As I was saying it to him, I knew that on principle I wouldn't give in, even though I have no longing to spend the rest of my life in the place.
As soon as I left the director's office I got on the phone to Jirka at the radio.
He promised to send one of his female colleagues over to see me. She is apparently the most astute member of their political staff.
She called me straight after lunch.
We arranged to meet at five o'clock this evening at a restaurant near the radio building.
She was younger than she had sounded on the phone and her face seemed slightly familiar. I told her so as soon as we sat down in the restaurant and asked her whether she didn't also appear on television.
'No,' she said, 'you know me from somewhere else. If you remember, that time in November, nine years ago, we were both sent to Ostrava to win over the miners.'
Of course I remembered. But there were quite a few of us in the group, so we didn't really notice each other. I started to apologize for not recognizing her.
'But it's ages ago. I also have different-coloured hair, a different hairstyle, and I'm fatter and older.'
I told her the colour of her hair suited her, that she wasn't at all fat and she didn't look a day over twenty.
'You're a real gentleman,' she said and smiled at me as if I were an old friend from the good old days.
I was glad we had previously met under those circumstances; I felt I could be more open with her than if they had sent any old member of staff.
I tried to fill her in briefly on the job I am doing and explain that there must be a lot of people who would sooner I stopped delving into their pasts and revealing their past crimes.
She took notes and told me they would definitely invite me to the studio next week to take part in a interview about this business, although she was doubtful that it would help me keep my job. The opposite most likely.
'I'm not worried about my job. I always enjoy a change.'
'So do I,' she said. 'Life would be boring otherwise.'
So we started to chat about our lives since. She was surprised I was still single; she had already managed to get married and divorced.
Our conversation started to stray beyond the usual bounds of discretion. She complained about her bad experiences with men, whom she found selfish and boorish, while I spoke about the anxiety I feel about emptiness, which undermines my ability to get really close to people. I didn't mention Kristýna.
For the first time in ages I could hear the rumble of tom-toms in the distance and it set my blood racing. Several times during our conversation my hand touched hers and she didn't move hers away.
It occurred to me to ask her if there might be a job for me in the radio, in case I really was dismissed; I told her I wasn't an absolute beginner and had earned extra cash by writing articles on the side.
She was sure I'd find something there: she told me the radio was an enormous funnel for collecting people. It wasn't hard to get
in but it was hard to find a niche. She added that it would be nice if we were to become colleagues. She stood up; she unfortunately had a rendezvous to go to.
The mention of a rendezvous aroused an almost jealous curiosity in me, but all I said was that we would definitely see each other soon.
She asked for my telephone number and gave me hers, at work and also at home, in case I didn't catch her at the radio. She told me she was looking forward to meeting me again, so it was fine that we'd see each other the following week.
Most likely she says something similar to everyone she is about to make a programme with, but I was sure she also expected something more from our coming meeting than just an interview, so her comment thrilled me as if we'd just made a date.
In the evening I phoned Kristýna.
I expect she was afraid I wanted to pay her a visit because she started to complain about her tiredness.
I asked her what her plans were for tomorrow.
She said she was driving down to see Jana.
'It's good that you'll get out.'
'You can come with me if you like,' she said to my amazement.
I wasn't sure I wanted to, but the fact is we've never been anywhere together and I'll have a chance to tell her what happened to me at work. It also occurred to me that she might be letting me know that we belong together after all, even though I'm beginning to think that we'll never belong together.
6
I am driving fast, as is my wont. Jan is sitting next to me and looking pleased. I don't know what came over me to invite him to come with me. I am afraid he'll misinterpret my invitation. But I'm not entirely sure myself how I intended it. As an act of
reconciliation or just as a joint trip to see Jana, since we took her to the detox centre together?
I can't say what I really want. I don't want to be cruel to the boy; I don't want to hurt him; I don't want to set off that chain reaction: you hurt me, now I'll hurt you. I don't want to hurt him, but I can't be sure that he won't hurt me. I don't know how he perceives me at this particular moment. I rather get the impression that he's wandering elsewhere in his thoughts and moving away from me.
We reach Sunnyside before midday.
They tell us that Jana is out in the forest with the rest and will be back in about two hours' time.
We could set off to find her in the forest, but instead we set off in the opposite direction. Half an hour later we come upon a group of isolated homesteads set around a picturesque fishpond and then we make our way up to a hilltop along a field track. There is a break in the mist and the autumn sun actually tries to warm us slightly. To the right of the path there is forest: the larches have already turned yellow and they seem to glow in the sunshine. To our left there is a freshly ploughed field with fragrant upturned soil.