This time he spoke with dry matter-of-factness. The people were calling for a new government and for the president's resignation, he said. He had received many letters on these matters, some supporting him, some critical. He thanked everyone for their views, positive or negative, for at least now he knew what people really thought. He had decided to appoint a new government and then resign.
'Ever since my youth, I have believed in the same bright ideals, and I continue to believe in them to this day.' He was speaking of his illusory faith from a dark hole, a drowning raven whose broken wings beat against the stormy waves that had finally engulfed him. 'There were certainly errors, but those errors were in people, not in the ideal, and therefore, I will remain faithful to the ideal as, I believe, will most of us.'
Pavel watched the morose face in his viewfinder with purely professional attention. He felt no emotion, not the slightest hint of compassion for the old man. He observed him as he would observe a slithering snake, an eviscerated rat or a warehouse full of toxic waste.
What would have happened had this ruler not emerged from the darkness into which he was now returning? Had he not appeared and defiled Pavel's life, defiled the life of everyone in this country? Would his life have been less tarnished? Would he now be standing on the brink of a dark hole that was about to swallow him up?
For the last time, the president wished everybody success in overcoming the present difficulties, and a quiet Christmas and a happy New Year.
His son would not have been born anyway.
The speech was over. The lighting technicians switched off the lights, the sound men put away the microphones.
The old man stepped up to him. He seemed to hesitate, as though he were afraid of being rebuffed, then he offered his hand and thanked him. Pavel returned the thanks and wished him well.
Who would take his place? And who would film the new president's speeches?
His mother was in hospital now. She had been careless about heating up some tea on the gas stove, and her
dressing-gown had caught fire. Surprisingly, she had managed to tear it off, but not before the flames had seared her left arm and hip.
'For a young person, this would be no more than a painful but minor setback,' a female doctor had told him. 'But at her age the skin sometimes refuses to heal.'
'I understand.' He was holding a bouquet that he had bought for his mother. It occurred to him that his mother wouldn't notice the flowers anyway, so he could give them to the doctor. But the right moment had passed, and besides, it was probably inappropriate to pay the doctor off with a handful of flowers.
'If you need medicine, or any other sort of help. . '
'Please, don't worry. We will do everything we can,' the doctor reassured him.
If he'd had a home of his own where his mother could have lived with him, this would probably not have happened. But the truth was, she was the reason he had not married. He could have spent far more time with her than he had, but he found her mental confusion repugnant. When he was with her, he thought mostly about how to get away again as quickly as possible.
She lay in a small room with three other women, her bandaged arm resting on the white counterpane, her eyes closed. The air in the room was overheated and stale, and he could smell the elderly bodies and some kind of disinfectant.
'The old lady sleeps a lot,' said the woman in the next bed. 'She moaned the whole of the first night, but it's better now.' The woman was young, and her face was apparently permanently scarred by burns.
He ran some water into a lemonade bottle and put the flowers into it, then sat down in a chair beside his mother's bed. 'Mother?'
Slowly she opened her eyes and looked at him. Her expression was blank.
'It's me, Mother.'
'Who's me?'
'Pavel.'
'It's your son,' said the neighbour. 'You told me about him yourself.'
'Is it you?'
'It's me.'
'It's good of you to come. Where am I? This isn't my bed.'
'You're in hospital, Mother.'
'How did you find me here?'
'He looked for you, didn't he,' said the neighbour. 'He knows his mother's here.'
'Yes, he says I used to be his mother,' she allowed. 'Isn't Daddy coming?'
'No.'
'He probably hasn't got the time,' said the neighbour. 'It's like I said, no one's got the time any more. My husband hasn't been to see me for a week. He just phones. They say the president resigned. Is that true?' she asked Pavel.
He nodded.
'What a pity,' said the neighbour. 'A pity I have to be here, I mean. If I were at home, we'd celebrate.'
'But he's resigned so often already,' said his mother.
'Not this one,' laughed the neighbour.
'It doesn't matter,' said the mother. 'They all have to go one day. Have they put him in a hospital too?'
'Who?'
'The one you're always talking about.'
'No,' he said. 'Do you feel any pain?'
'How could I feel any pain? They've taken away my body.'
He stroked her hand. He couldn't think what to say to her. Perhaps she would die in a few days. He should do something for her. What can you do for a mother whose body is departing and whose soul is already gone? Talk to her about hope. But what kind of hope would she understand? And what kind of hope did she have left? What kind of hope did he believe in himself? What would he want in her situation?
He'd want not to be among complete strangers. He'd want someone to hold his hand. Once again he stroked her unbandaged hand. It was cold, wrinkled and rough.
'The air in here is strange,' she said. 'I don't think I'm at home. And I don't know where little Pavel is.'
'I'm Pavel.'
'You're just making fun of me. Little Pavel was my son. A tiny little boy.'
'Well, who do you think I am? It's just that I've grown up since then.'
'Little Pavel never grew up. I don't know what became of him. He was a good boy. I was fond of him, and he was fond of me.' She sobbed under her breath. 'It makes me sad that I haven't seen him so long.' She closed her eyes and continued to sob.
The telephone rang. "El Senor Fuka?'
'Al aparato.' He wasn't properly awake and didn't know what time it was, but it was still deep night outside his window. The fan on the ceiling was turning noisily. He was lying in his hotel room. Karel Sokol was sleeping soundly in the other bed. They'd drunk too many tequilas last night. Why hadn't Sokol answered the telephone? But no, the call was apparently for Pavel. 'Quien habla?'
'Un momento. Le llaman. '
'Dr Valentová here. Can you hear me?'
'Yes, I can hear you very clearly, Dr Valentová.'
'I'm Albina's mother.'
Yes, I know that, doctor.'
'I just wanted to tell you the news. I took my daughter to the hospital last night.'
'Oh, God! Has anything serious happened?'
'She began to bleed, but there's still hope. I just thought you should know.'
'Yes, thank you. But I don't know… Do you think I should come home?'
'I have no idea what your responsibilities are. But my daughter isn't in the best of shape, psychologically. I mean, you know what this child would mean to her. . '
'I do. Please tell her I'll come. Tell her I'll come on the first available flight.'
'I'll give you her number at the hospital. Perhaps you should tell her yourself.'