Not likely, because that uncontrolled movement of the lips, that virginal orgasm, always aroused him so much that he would certainly have mentioned it. Apparently this time he overestimated his power. For there are no further references to his schoolgirl. There follow a few accounts of vapid dates with another girl (Josef skips over some lines),
and the diary finishes with the closing days of the school year (he has one more to go) just when an older woman (this one he remembers very well) introduced him to physical love and moved his life onto other tracks; he had stopped writing all that down by now; the diary did not outlive its author's virginity; a very brief chapter of his life came to an end, and, having neither sequel nor consequence, was relegated to the dim cupboard of cast-off items.
Josef sets about ripping the diary pages into tiny scraps. The gesture is probably excessive and useless; but he feels the need to give free rein to his aversion; the need to annihilate the little snot so that never (even if only in a bad dream) would he be mistaken for him, be vilified in his stead, be held responsible for his words and his acts!
25
At that moment the telephone rang. He remembered the woman from the Paris airport, and picked up the phone.
"You won't recognize me," said a voice.
"I do, sure I do!"
"But you can't know who you're talking to."
No, he was mistaken; it wasn't the woman from the airport. It was one of those blase drawls, those unpleasantly nasal voices. He was disconcerted. She introduced herself: it was the daughter from her previous marriage of the woman he'd divorced after a few months of life together, thirty years back.
"No, you're right, I couldn't know who I was talking to," he said with a forced laugh.
Since the divorce he had never seen them, neither his ex-wife nor his stepdaughter, who in his memory was still a little girl.
"I need to talk to you," she said.
He regretted having begun the conversation so enthusiastically; he was unhappy with her tone of familiarity, but he couldn't do anything about that now: "How did you find out I was here? Nobody knows."
"Well, really."
"What do you mean?"
"Your sister-in-law."
"I didn't know you knew her."
88
"Mama does."
Immediately he pictured the alliance that had sprung up spontaneously between those two women.
"So then, you're calling on your mother's behalf?"
The blase voice turned insistent. "I need to talk to you. It's absolutely necessary."
"You, or your mother?"
"Me."
"Tell me first what this is about."
"Do you want to see me or not?"
"I'm asking you to tell me what it's about."
The blase voice turned aggressive: "If you don't want to see me, just say so right out."
He detested her insistence but did not dare put her off. Keeping secret her reason for the meeting was a very effective gambit on his stepdaughter's part: he grew uneasy.
"I'm only here for a couple of days; I'm very busy. I might be able to squeeze in a half hour at most. . .," and he named a cafe in Prague for the day he was leaving.
"You won't be there."
"I'll be there."
89
When he hung up he felt a kind of nausea. What could those women want from him? Some advice? People who need advice don't act aggressive. They wanted to make trouble for him. Prove they existed. Take up his time. But then why had he agreed to meet her? Out of curiosity? Oh, come on—it was out of fear! He had given in to an old reflex: to protect himself he always tried to be fully informed in advance. But protect himself? These days? Against what? There was certainly no danger. Quite simply, his stepdaughter's voice enveloped him in a fog of old recollections: intrigues; interfering relatives; abortion; tears; slander; blackmail; emotional bullying; angry scenes; anonymous letters: the whole concierge conspiracy.
The life we've left behind us has a bad habit of stepping out of the shadows, of bringing complaints against us, of taking us to court. Living far from Bohemia, Josef had
and the diary finishes with the closing days of the school year (he has one more to go) just when an older woman (this one he remembers very well) introduced him to physical love and moved his life onto other tracks; he had stopped writing all that down by now; the diary did not outlive its author's virginity; a very brief chapter of his life came to an end, and, having neither sequel nor consequence, was relegated to the dim cupboard of cast-off items.
Josef sets about ripping the diary pages into tiny scraps. The gesture is probably excessive and useless; but he feels the need to give free rein to his aversion; the need to annihilate the little snot so that never (even if only in a bad dream) would he be mistaken for him, be vilified in his stead, be held responsible for his words and his acts!
25
At that moment the telephone rang. He remembered the woman from the Paris airport, and picked up the phone.
"You won't recognize me," said a voice.
"I do, sure I do!"
"But you can't know who you're talking to."
No, he was mistaken; it wasn't the woman from the airport. It was one of those blase drawls, those unpleasantly nasal voices. He was disconcerted. She introduced herself: it was the daughter from her previous marriage of the woman he'd divorced after a few months of life together, thirty years back.
"No, you're right, I couldn't know who I was talking to," he said with a forced laugh.
Since the divorce he had never seen them, neither his ex-wife nor his stepdaughter, who in his memory was still a little girl.
"I need to talk to you," she said.
He regretted having begun the conversation so enthusiastically; he was unhappy with her tone of familiarity, but he couldn't do anything about that now: "How did you find out I was here? Nobody knows."
"Well, really."
"What do you mean?"
"Your sister-in-law."
"I didn't know you knew her."
88
"Mama does."
Immediately he pictured the alliance that had sprung up spontaneously between those two women.
"So then, you're calling on your mother's behalf?"
The blase voice turned insistent. "I need to talk to you. It's absolutely necessary."
"You, or your mother?"
"Me."
"Tell me first what this is about."
"Do you want to see me or not?"
"I'm asking you to tell me what it's about."
The blase voice turned aggressive: "If you don't want to see me, just say so right out."
He detested her insistence but did not dare put her off. Keeping secret her reason for the meeting was a very effective gambit on his stepdaughter's part: he grew uneasy.
"I'm only here for a couple of days; I'm very busy. I might be able to squeeze in a half hour at most. . .," and he named a cafe in Prague for the day he was leaving.
"You won't be there."
"I'll be there."
89
When he hung up he felt a kind of nausea. What could those women want from him? Some advice? People who need advice don't act aggressive. They wanted to make trouble for him. Prove they existed. Take up his time. But then why had he agreed to meet her? Out of curiosity? Oh, come on—it was out of fear! He had given in to an old reflex: to protect himself he always tried to be fully informed in advance. But protect himself? These days? Against what? There was certainly no danger. Quite simply, his stepdaughter's voice enveloped him in a fog of old recollections: intrigues; interfering relatives; abortion; tears; slander; blackmail; emotional bullying; angry scenes; anonymous letters: the whole concierge conspiracy.
The life we've left behind us has a bad habit of stepping out of the shadows, of bringing complaints against us, of taking us to court. Living far from Bohemia, Josef had
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