adrenaline was pulsing through your muscles in the struggle against the mass of people and every jolt from the tram . . . as if you might catch a deadly disease from simply brushing against me . . .”
“That’s how you told the story to the landlady, using those words?”
“How do you mean?”
“That vividly.”
“Oh, the landlady makes me nervous. I got a bit off track.”
“Tell me the way you told the landlady. The main points, briefly.”
“I’ll tell it the way I want to! It’s my memory. And memories are feelings. What else can they be?”
“Our memories are details. Maybe you realize that now.”
“Guess what came into my mind then?”
“I guess that it really happened to you.”
“But it wasn’t my husband.”
“What difference does it make? You’ve mixed everything up, so now that man is me.”
“I looked you straight in the eye to see if you were trying to keep your distance out of bashfulness or desire . . .”
“Any other possibilities? Perhaps disgust or indifference?”
“I couldn’t tell! Your strength just started to wane, and finally you slumped against me and stammered into my ear, ‘I can’t help it, I’m very sorry . . .’”
“You’ve never seen him again.”
“Of course I have! I married you.”
“Was that everything?”
“You ought to come up with a reason for being in Olomouc.”
“Why were you there?”
“I lived there.”
“But I was only visiting.”
“Yes, that sounds better, you were only visiting. If you’d lived there, too, that wouldn’t have been such a huge coincidence, a fateful coincidence whereby we bump into each other.”
“No more coincidences, remember that.”
The woman doesn’t seem to have heard, so the man repeats, “Remember that.”
“If lying has become so easy, could it ever become difficult again?” she asks.
But Esther is not terribly sure of herself in the presence of Mrs. Němcová. How piercing Mrs. Němcová’s eyes are—they can see through everything, including Esther and Tomáš. They can clearly see what Esther can only surmise due to her youth: that there is something strange about them. There has been right from the start. They simply do not appear to be at any stage of marriage. They are of an age where, if they were at any stage of a marriage, they would probably be right at the start, but they show no hint of initial ardor, midstage companionship, or final emptiness, and none of the enmity of any stage. They have the sort of strained indifference that shows they are simply not a couple at all: something has forced them together, and in these accursed times, the landlady has sensed this compulsion. Its stench hangs in the nostrils like mold growing under the floorboards. The landlady is fed up with furtive glances and back doors that lead from wardrobes to hidden attics. She built her house so high up that historical events flow past her, like a river flooding the bottom of a valley. Entire villages are washed away with them, but there she stands on her veranda, near the edge of the forest, in her very own little Switzerland. She reckons the madness will last another two or three years, and when it is all over, she will pose the following questions:
“What war?”
“When did it start?”
“Oh, it’s over already?”
“So what happened?”
“Do you intend to remember him tomorrow?”
“Remember?”
“Yes, tomorrow.”
They look at each other, baffled—Mrs. Němcová, who has been hovering around Esther all morning, and Esther, who has been trying to shake her off as if she suspected there was a question on the tip of the old lady’s tongue for which she had no answer.
“Don’t you know what day it is tomorrow?”
“Tuesday?”
“The tenth of July.”
Nothing registers in Esther’s mind, but in order to gain some time she asks, “Is that tomorrow?”
“Yes, it’s tomorrow.”
“I’ve lost all sense of time.”
“There’s some wine in the
“That’s how you told the story to the landlady, using those words?”
“How do you mean?”
“That vividly.”
“Oh, the landlady makes me nervous. I got a bit off track.”
“Tell me the way you told the landlady. The main points, briefly.”
“I’ll tell it the way I want to! It’s my memory. And memories are feelings. What else can they be?”
“Our memories are details. Maybe you realize that now.”
“Guess what came into my mind then?”
“I guess that it really happened to you.”
“But it wasn’t my husband.”
“What difference does it make? You’ve mixed everything up, so now that man is me.”
“I looked you straight in the eye to see if you were trying to keep your distance out of bashfulness or desire . . .”
“Any other possibilities? Perhaps disgust or indifference?”
“I couldn’t tell! Your strength just started to wane, and finally you slumped against me and stammered into my ear, ‘I can’t help it, I’m very sorry . . .’”
“You’ve never seen him again.”
“Of course I have! I married you.”
“Was that everything?”
“You ought to come up with a reason for being in Olomouc.”
“Why were you there?”
“I lived there.”
“But I was only visiting.”
“Yes, that sounds better, you were only visiting. If you’d lived there, too, that wouldn’t have been such a huge coincidence, a fateful coincidence whereby we bump into each other.”
“No more coincidences, remember that.”
The woman doesn’t seem to have heard, so the man repeats, “Remember that.”
“If lying has become so easy, could it ever become difficult again?” she asks.
But Esther is not terribly sure of herself in the presence of Mrs. Němcová. How piercing Mrs. Němcová’s eyes are—they can see through everything, including Esther and Tomáš. They can clearly see what Esther can only surmise due to her youth: that there is something strange about them. There has been right from the start. They simply do not appear to be at any stage of marriage. They are of an age where, if they were at any stage of a marriage, they would probably be right at the start, but they show no hint of initial ardor, midstage companionship, or final emptiness, and none of the enmity of any stage. They have the sort of strained indifference that shows they are simply not a couple at all: something has forced them together, and in these accursed times, the landlady has sensed this compulsion. Its stench hangs in the nostrils like mold growing under the floorboards. The landlady is fed up with furtive glances and back doors that lead from wardrobes to hidden attics. She built her house so high up that historical events flow past her, like a river flooding the bottom of a valley. Entire villages are washed away with them, but there she stands on her veranda, near the edge of the forest, in her very own little Switzerland. She reckons the madness will last another two or three years, and when it is all over, she will pose the following questions:
“What war?”
“When did it start?”
“Oh, it’s over already?”
“So what happened?”
“Do you intend to remember him tomorrow?”
“Remember?”
“Yes, tomorrow.”
They look at each other, baffled—Mrs. Němcová, who has been hovering around Esther all morning, and Esther, who has been trying to shake her off as if she suspected there was a question on the tip of the old lady’s tongue for which she had no answer.
“Don’t you know what day it is tomorrow?”
“Tuesday?”
“The tenth of July.”
Nothing registers in Esther’s mind, but in order to gain some time she asks, “Is that tomorrow?”
“Yes, it’s tomorrow.”
“I’ve lost all sense of time.”
“There’s some wine in the
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