Life Is Elsewhere (16 page)

Yes, it was strange: in a moment of excitement (thus at a moment when an individual acts spontaneously and reveals his true self), Jaromil abandoned his language and chose to be a medium for someone else. And not only did he do this, he did it with a feeling of intense pleasure; it seemed to him that he was part of a thousand-headed crowd, one of the heads of the thousand-headed dragon of a people on the march, and he found that glorious. He suddenly felt strong and with the power to laugh openly at a man who used to make him blush with timidity. The harsh simplicity of the assertion ("the working class will wring your neck") gave him pleasure because it placed him in the ranks of those wonderfully simple men who laugh at nuances and whose entire wisdom consists of the essential, which is always insolently simple.

 Jaromil (in pajamas and with a towel around his neck) stood, legs apart, in front of the radio, which right behind his back had just resounded with tremendous applause, and it seemed to him that this din was entering and expanding him so that he stood facing his uncle like an immovable tree, like a laughing rock.

And his uncle, who believed that Voltaire had invented volts, came forward and slapped his face.

Jaromil felt a sharp pain on his cheek. He was humiliated, and because he felt as big and powerful as a tree or a rock (the thousands of voices were still resounding from the radio behind him), he wanted to throw himself at his uncle and slap him back. But since it took him a moment to decide, his uncle had time to turn around and leave the room.

Jaromil shouted: "I'll get him for this! The bastard! I'll get him!" and headed toward the door. But Grand-mama grabbed him by the pajama sleeve and begged him to calm down, which made Jaromil content himself with repeating "the bastard, the bastard, the bastard" as he returned to the bed in which, less than an hour ago, he had left his imaginary lover. He was now unable to think about her. He saw his uncle before him and felt the slap and heaped endless reproaches on himself for not having acted swiftly, like a man; he reproached himself so bitterly that he began to cry and wet his pillow with angry tears.

Late that afternoon Mama came home and anxiously told him that the director of her department, a very respected man, had already been dismissed and that all the non-Communists in the office feared they would soon be arrested.

In bed Jaromil propped himself up on his elbow and began to talk passionately. He explained to Mama that what was happening was a revolution, and that a revolution is a brief period when recourse to violence is necessary in order to hasten the arrival of a society in which violence is forbidden. Mama should understand that!

She, too, put her heart and soul into the debate, but Jaromil managed to refute her objections. He said that the rule of the rich and of that whole society of entrepreneurs and shopkeepers was stupid, and he cleverly reminded Mama that she herself, in her own family, was the victim of such people; he reminded her of the arrogance of her sister and the ignorance of her brother-in-law.

This made her waver, and Jaromil was pleased by the success of his arguments; he felt that he had taken revenge for the slap he had been given a few hours before; but when he thought of that, he felt his anger return, and he said: "And you know, Mama, I want to join the Communist Party too."

He read the disapproval in Mama's eyes, but he persisted with his assertion; he said that he was ashamed he had not joined earlier, that only the burdensome legacy of the house in which he had grown up separated him from those with whom he had long known he belonged.

"Are you saying you're sorry you were born here and that I'm your mother?"

Mama's tone showed that she was hurt by this, and Jaromil had to add quickly that she had misunderstood; in his opinion Mama, as she really was, had basically nothing in common with her sister or brother-in-law or the world of rich people.

But Mama told him: "If you love me at all, don't do it! You know how hellish your uncle already makes my life. If you join the Party it'll be absolutely intolerable. Be sensible, I beg you."

A tearful sadness clutched Jaromil's throat. Instead of returning his uncle's slap, he had just received from him a second one. He turned away from Mama and waited for her to leave the room. Then he again began to cry.

21

It was six o'clock in the evening, and the student greeted him at the door in a white apron and led him into a tidy kitchen. Dinner was nothing special, scrambled eggs with diced sausage, but it was the first dinner a woman (except for Mama and Grandmama) had ever prepared for Jaromil, and he ate with the pride of a man whose mistress takes care of him.

Then they went into the next room; it contained a round mahogany table with a crocheted cover on which there stood, like a weight, a massive crystal vase; the walls were decorated with hideous paintings, and one corner was occupied by a couch heaped with countless cushions. Everything had been determined and agreed in advance for this evening, and all they had to do was to sink into the pillows' soft swells; but the student, oddly enough, sat down on a hard chair at the round table and he sat down facing her; then, still sitting on those hard chairs, they talked about one thing and another for a long, long time, until Jaromil felt his throat tighten.

He had to be home by eleven; he had of course asked Mama to let him stay out all night (he invented a party organized by his classmates), but he came up against

such vigorous resistance that he didn't dare insist and thus could only hope that the five hours between six and eleven would be sufficient for his first night of love.

But the student chattered on and on, and the five hours rapidly dwindled; she talked about her family, about her brother who had once attempted suicide over an unhappy love affair: "That marked me. I can't be like other girls. I can't take love lightly," she said, and Jaromil felt that these words were meant to put the imprint of seriousness on the physical love that had been promised him. And so he got up from his chair, bent over the girl, and said in a very serious voice: "I understand, yes, I understand you"; he then helped her up from her chair, led her to the couch, and sat her down.

Then they kissed, caressed, necked. That lasted for a long while, until Jaromil thought it was probably time to undress the girl, but never having done such a thing before, he didn't know how to begin. First of all he didn't know whether he should or shouldn't turn off the light. According to all the reports he had heard about situations of this kind, he supposed that he should turn it off. Somewhere in his jacket pocket he had a little packet containing the translucent sock, and if at the decisive moment he was to put it on discreetly and secretly, darkness was absolutely essential. But he couldn't just decide to get up in the midst of the caresses and head for the light switch, which seemed to him rather out of place (let's not forget that he was well brought up), for he was a guest here and it was up to the hostess to turn the switch. Finally he dared to ask shyly: "Shouldn't we turn off the light?"

The girl answered: "No, no, please." Jaromil wondered whether this meant that the girl didn't want darkness because she didn't want to make love or whether the girl wanted to make love but not in the dark. He could of course have asked her, but he was ashamed to say out loud what he thought.

Then he recalled that he had to be home by eleven, and he made an effort to overcome his shyness; he unbuttoned the first female button of his life. It was a button on her white blouse and he unbuttoned it with fearful expectation of what she might say. She said nothing. So he continued unbuttoning, lifted her blouse out of the waistband of her skirt, and then took her blouse off entirely.

She was now lying on the cushions in her skirt and brassiere, and then astonishingly, although she had been kissing Jaromil avidly just moments before, now that he had taken her blouse off, she seemed to have fallen into a stupor; she didn't move; she slightly thrust out her chest, like a condemned man offering himself to the gun barrels.

There was nothing else he could do but go on undressing her: he found the zipper at the side of her skirt and opened it; the poor innocent didn't know about

the fastener that held the skirt at the waist, and he tried stubbornly but in vain to pull it down over the girl's hips; she thrust out her chest, facing the invisible firing squad and not even noticing his difficulties.

Ah, let's pass over in silence Jaromil's fifteen or so minutes of trouble! He finally succeeded in undressing the student completely. When he saw her obediently lying on the cushions, awaiting the long-awaited moment, he realized that he now had to undress as well. But the ceiling light was glaring and Jaromil was ashamed to take his clothes off. Then he had a saving idea: next to the living room he had noticed the bedroom (an old-fashioned bedroom with twin beds); the light was off there; he could undress in the dark there and even hide under the covers.

"Aren't we going to the bedroom?" he asked her shyly.

"To the bedroom? What for? Why do you need a bedroom?" said the girl, laughing.

It's hard to say why she was laughing. It was gratuitous, embarrassed, thoughtless laughter. But Jaromil was wounded by it; he feared that he had said something stupid, as if his suggestion of going to the bedroom exposed his ridiculous inexperience. He was disconcerted; he was in a strange apartment, under a revealing light he couldn't turn off, with a strange woman who was making fun of him.

He instantly realized that they wouldn't be making love that evening; he felt offended and sat silently on the couch; he regretted what had happened, but at the same time he was relieved; he no longer had to wonder whether he should or shouldn't turn off the light or how to undress; and he was glad it wasn't his fault; she had reason to laugh so stupidly!

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing," said Jaromil, and he knew that he would look even more ridiculous if he were to tell the girl the reason for his touchiness. He therefore made an effort to control himself, lifted her from the couch, and began conspicuously to examine her (he wanted to dominate the situation, and he thought that the one who examines dominates the one who is being examined); then he said: "You're beautiful."

Risen from the couch on which she had been lying in motionless expectation, the girl seemed suddenly freed; she was again talkative and sure of herself. She was not at all embarrassed to be examined by a boy (perhaps she thought that the one being examined dominated the one who examines), and she asked: "Am I more beautiful naked or dressed?"

There are a number of classic female questions that every man encounters sooner or later and that the educational institutions should prepare young males for. But Jaromil, like all of us, attended bad schools and didn't know how to answer; he tried to guess what the girl wanted to hear, but he was at a loss: most of the time, when she is with others, a girl is dressed, and so she is probably glad to be more beautiful with clothes on; but since nakedness is the body's truth, Jaromil was probably just as glad to tell her she was prettier when she was naked.

"You're beautiful naked and dressed," he said, but the student was not at all satisfied with that answer. She pranced around the room, posed for the young man, and demanded a straight answer. "I want to know which way you like me more."

When the question was put so precisely, it was easier to answer. Since other people knew her only when she was dressed, he thought it would be tactless to say that she was less beautiful dressed than naked; but because she had asked for his personal opinion, he could boldly answer that personally he preferred her naked, as this showed more clearly that he loved her as she was, for herself alone, and that he didn't care about anything that was merely added to her person.

Evidently he had not misjudged, for when the student heard that she was more beautiful naked she reacted very favorably. She didn't put her clothes back on until after he left, she kissed him many times, and on the doorstep, as he was leaving (it was a quarter to eleven, Mama would be satisfied), she whispered in his ear: "Today you showed me that you love me. You're very nice; you really love me. Yes, it's better this way. We'll save it for later."

22

At around that time he began to write a long poem. It was a story poem about a man who suddenly realized that he was old; that he was "where fate no longer builds its rail stations"; that he was abandoned and forgotten; that around him

They're whitewashing the walls they're removing 

the movables They're changing 

everything in his room 

So he rushes out of his house and goes back to where he experienced the most intense moments of his life:

Rear of the house fourth floor rear door at left in

 the corner With a name on the card 

unreadable in the 

darkness
 
"Moments have passed since twenty years ago 

please take me in!"

An old woman opens the door, disturbed out of the careless apathy she has been immersed in during long years of solitude. Quickly, quickly she bites her bloodless lips to give them back a bit of color; quickly, with a gesture from long ago, she tries to put a bit of order into her sparse wisps of unwashed hair, and with an embarrassed air she waves her arms to hide from him the photographs of former lovers hanging on the walls. But then she feels that all is well in this room, and that appearances don't matter; she says: 

"Twenty years And yet you've come back As the

 last important thing I'll ever meet I have no

 chance of seeing anything If I try to peer over 

your shoulder into the future."

Yes, all is well in this room; nothing matters any longer, neither wrinkles nor shabby clothes nor yellow teeth nor sparse hair nor pale lips nor a sagging belly.