A Czech Dreambook (Ukázka, strana 99)

our every deed counts. In other words, every resignation counts and so does every enrolment. Everything that people do counts; all those who are foolish enough to screen their past will lose their wits; those who refuse to acknowledge all their parts will become schizophrenic. By opening my arms as wide as I can, I will try to embrace everything that was ever mine and I will stay sane. And so I hope and pray that no more terrible fate awaits me than to lie on the bed that I have made for myself over the years.

The ringing of the doorbell mechanically roused me from my sleep, without telling me where I was, what day it was and what was up. I made my way to the door, my mind blank, gesturing to those I’d left behind me to wait – I’d be right back. I opened the door and there stood Havel Minor, Mr. Václav’s younger brother. He was wearing a coat with decorative metal buttons such as for a very congenial uniform. “I woke you up,” he apologised, “but I was told this was the most convenient time.” – “It’s all right,” I said, echoing my last words to the plumbers. – “I see you’re not quite steady yet,” said Havel Minor. “Do you wish to react straight away or should I wait a few moments?” – I enjoyed these words immensely, this was Mr. Václav’s brother without a shadow of doubt. “I’ll react straight away,” I said, “but think carefully about what you say here,” and I pointed at the ceiling. – “What I want to tell you,” he stated with precision, “they already know. I heard you were intending to visit my brother. I have come to tell you that I tried to do the same, but unsuccessfully, even though I am his brother.”

F R I D AY, 9 T H M A R C H 1 9 7 9

The X-ray showed that the roots of the teeth pointed inwards from right and left deep into my head, where they almost met. But I was prepared for an operation and was not afraid of anything. I just found it odd that Dr. Kurka was not there. Instead there were two unknown doctors who had not yet reached a consensus. But for the time being I had been given an anaesthetic injection. One of the doctors was more congenial and I turned to him for a hint that he knew me, but he was unwilling to make any sign in front of the other. Now and then one or the other would go off to make a phone call.

The one who remained with me would examine my head with his fingers.

The less familiar doctor seemed to be mutely astounded that I wanted the operation. Meanwhile I started to shake automatically, without fear. At last

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the supremely favourable moment for the operation arrived. The only part of my head I could feel were my eyes. At this moment there was a sort of commotion above my head and someone rushed in and the doctor standing by me said: “It’s not to be done.” He unfastened the belt across my chest that had held me down to the table. I stood up and went out wordlessly with my face numb. I was upset that it had been postponed.

I shaved, took a shower and put on my dark brown suit, the one I bought twice from Josef for a hundred crowns each time. He had been left it by his father-in-law, who was an army vet during the First Republic. For that reason I find the jacket a bit tight over the shoulders, while the trousers are too baggy, particularly in the crotch. But when I tug them on all the way, they almost reach up to my armpits. Madla is appalled whenever I put it on, but the material is good quality and I wear it out of consideration for Josef and the First Republic. I forced the second hundred crowns on Josef by making out I had not paid him the previous month.

I gave the birds fresh water, did not make myself tea because I did not feel like breakfast, and packed my briefcase. I estimated how many crowns I should need to pay for the Šimečka at the binders, but I shall have to ask Mirka to go for me, because R. gave a woman’s name again. I was putting my shoes on, ready to leave, when the doorbell rang. It was Mojmír Klánský, and I had a sour pang of conscience. He too was unpleasantly surprised to find me on my way out. He had brought some tickets for a concert, attached to a page of meticulous details about the orchestra, the conductor and the composer. I told him I was just leaving, which was just as well as we could talk together outside. I just had to bite that sour bullet once and for all.

Mojmír had offered me his story “The Albatross” for Padlock, but it had not been liked by any of those I had given it to read.

It is the story of an army officer from the First Republic who goes off to join the resistance during the Nazi occupation and when he returns after the war finds himself not promoted but the opposite. Eventually, after 1948, he is arrested. Advancement is possible only for unprincipled and weak-minded individuals. Our hero had been fond of horses as a young officer and even raced them. An episode around a magnificent horse brings him into close contact with a magnificent woman. Things are just getting exciting when the war comes. In the story those events are related in flashback. The actual plot in the present tense starts with the officer setting out on an enforced leave,

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whose denouement he senses, and running into the woman on the train. One thing leads to another – there’s no other way of putting it – and instead of going home to her husband she goes off with the officer and stays with him a day – or two? At last, everything between them is almost as it should have been before the war when each of them was young and between their thighs there raced a horse, by which I mean that sensual magic which ought to be in the story, Istenem, but is not, unfortunately.

Outside I told Mojmír the lot. He exploded: “I couldn’t give a damn what your friends say! At first you told me you liked the story!” – “Yes. And by that I meant how much better it was than the original version. But we have a principle that each manuscript has to be supported by two or three people.” – “Well my case is the first time you’ve ever implemented that principle.” – “Don’t be crazy! Kantůrková was adamant that her book was ready.

She was furious and maybe even wept in private. In the end, though, she took it like a man and is reworking the text.” – “And what did Klíma say?” Mojmír bellowed, as a roaring file of cars passed within a yard of us. “I’m sure he can’t stand me!” – “I didn’t give it to Klíma to read.” I was bellowing also.

“I deliberately asked people who had enjoyed your earlier book. So there!”

We stood waiting at the pedestrian crossing. The traffic cop took ages to change the lights. Mojmír said: “You haven’t even the faintest idea what I’ve written since then, and you’ll never find out!” – “Why?!” – “So I don’t cause you difficulties with your friends and also so you don’t have the awkward duty of smuggling me in among them or explaining their attitudes.” – “You’re a touchy fellow.” – “I’m not.” – “You are, though.”

We eventually got across the road and onto the tram. Once aboard, Mojmír explained to me that he intended to be a loner in that case. “I like that,” I said, “I’m a loner too.” He laughingly dismissed the idea with a wave of the hand. “It’s all my fault, Mojmír. I failed to tell you right away what I didn’t like about it, and instead I tried to give you positive guidance in terms of what I liked about it. And there’s another thing, you’re always giving me your things to read so that by now I am so used to your style it doesn’t bother me any more.” – “Have I really got so much worse since Banishment? – “You haven’t changed. But just try and remember what I told you straight out that time. About your language being bland and lacking any aesthetic tone. It’s an austerely informative style. In Banishment, by lucky chance, it turned out to be an asset. It looks like something intentional on the part of the author,

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