It wasn’t until Alice ran into her father’s friend Dr. Lukavský in her mother’s room at the hospital that she realized she was worried about her mother and didn’t like the way she had been acting. “She always used to put on makeup, at the very least she drew in her eyebrows, and now, Uncle, now? What’s wrong with her? She hardly even talks. She just spends all her time remembering,” Alice said, unconsciously taking advantage of running into Antonín to give vent to all her fears. He gave her an answer intended to reassure her, although in spite of his medical education he didn’t understand the reason for Květa’s illness, which had started out as ordinary pneumonia. She was veiled in the violet scent of resignation, and he refused to think of her as a patient. He had ordered himself not to, and he intended to carry out his order.
The next Monday after dinner, Jiří remembered what Aunt Anna had said to him about the paper pictures with the wedge-shaped marks. He took them out of the display case and laid them in front of her under the harsh light of the table lamp. Aunt Anna spun the sheets of paper around, nodded to Jiří, and without looking up, said: “As long as I’ve got you here, my boy, I don’t need my glasses or a magnifying glass. Come closer and read it to me.”
Jiří pulled up his chair, lifted one of the sheets, and examined the marks. Written in neat, tiny letters it said: To Květa from Josef. On the next line beneath it was written: Dear Květa, as you know, our anniversary is coming up soon. So I got the idea of expressing what I feel for you in this way. For your eyes only. The truth is I hope what I have to say on these two pages makes you happy. Just a little surprise from me. Josef.
Jiří finished reading the text and Aunt Anna waited a moment to hear what came next. But that was it.
“That’s all there is,” said Jiří.
“That’s it? Nothing else?” she asked.
“No, that’s it,” said Jiří.
After he’d driven Aunt Anna home, Jiří asked Alice if she knew anything about the sheets of paper inscribed with cuneiform, and he showed her the other side with the rows of tiny neat script. “That’s my father’s writing all right,” said Alice, “but I couldn’t say what he meant by it.” After a few days Jiří convinced Alice to go out to Lhotka and see whether Josef had left a letter there for Květa. Alice didn’t pay it too much attention at first, but then, reasoning that it might make her mother happy, she gave Kryštof a call. She learned that he and Libuše had already readied Josef’s room for Květa, and he had given it a fresh coat of paint, which it badly needed. Kryštof said they hadn’t thrown away any of Josef’s things, especially not his papers, and that he’d take a look, but neither he nor Libuše had come across any letter. A few days later Kryštof stopped by the hospital to visit Květa and told Alice there wasn’t any letter among Josef’s things.
Jiří, who had to pass through the room with the display case in it in order to get to his bedroom, suddenly got an idea and decided to share it with Alice. “I have a feeling,” he said. “I think I figured it out.” He went on, holding the two pieces of paper in his hand. “I believe the letter is right here in front of our eyes. Only it’s written in a foreign language, in cuneiform.” Alice was amused. Kryštof would have never dreamed up something like that, she thought. “Fine, and …?” she said, drifting off into awkward silence.
“Maybe you should go show it to Aunt Květa?” Jiří said.
“You know, Jiří,” Alice said, “things weren’t exactly ideal between my mom and dad, and with her in the hospital … I’m not so sure it would be good to ask her about it right now. She’s got enough to deal with as is. Though it’s true I had the feeling they’d been getting closer again.”
Jiří studied Alice a moment, then said, “What does that mean, getting closer?”
“Closer, you know, like loving each other. But whatever, I’ll bring it to my mom tomorrow.”
The next day at the hospital, she showed her mother what Jiří and Aunt Anna had discovered, and asked what she thought of it. “Your dad — well, your dad was born the same day they announced they had deciphered the Hittite language. And when we were young we used to go on dates to lectures by Professor Hrozný, the man who cracked the code,” Květa said. That was as far as she wanted to go. The only one who seemed haunted by the two sheets of images was Jiří. One day, when Alice came home, he said: “I’ve got it, Alice, I’ve got it. I figured it out and tomorrow we’re going to have it deciphered, or translated, rather.” Alice already knew what he was talking about. “You know what, Jiří? I’ve got a lot on my plate right now. Why don’t you go by yourself?”
And so, resigned yet filled with a sense of adventure that can be experienced only in Eastern Europe, the next day Jiří knocked on a door with a plaque that read: Dr. Jakub Hájek, Office Hours Tuesday and Thursday 15.00–17.00. Beneath it, added in hand, was: Office hours are not intended for tutoring before exams. A few students paced back and forth in front of the door, waiting their turn. Jiří’s turn came at four thirty. He knocked on the door. “Come in,” he heard, and entered. A thin man stood on the other side of the desk, his face covered with a full graying beard. “Hello,” said Jiří.
“Hello,” said Professor Hájek. He studied his guest a moment. “What can I do for you?”
Jiří introduced himself and said: “I have a favor to ask, Professor. I have a text that I need translated.”
“Where are you from? How come I’ve never seen you before?”
“I already have my degree, though it’s in economic history, which is nowhere near as interesting a field as yours,” Jiří said. “The reason I’m here is, we found this thing at home and we don’t know what it says, and I believe it was written by one of my relatives who recently passed away, to his wife, who’s now in the hospital. Although … maybe the whole thing is nonsense, but would you mind taking a look?”
“Did this relative of yours study in our department?” Professor Hájek asked.
“I don’t think so,” Jiří said. “I mean, definitely not. He was a civil engineer. It’s just I was told that they met here — that is, he and his wife — at Professor Hrozný’s lectures, but I’m not exactly sure.”
“But that must have been …”
“My aunt is a little over seventy,” Jiří said.
“All right then, let’s have a look.”
Jiří pulled the plastic folder from his briefcase containing the papers and handed it across the desk. Professor Hájek studied the papers a while and Jiří had the impression he was actually reading. After about ten minutes, the professor removed his glasses, opened a drawer, took out a tissue, and wiped his glasses a few times, looking embarrassed.
“Eh-hehm,” he said, clearing his throat. “It is in fact a letter, and if I may say so, of a personal,” he cleared his throat again, “a very personal nature. I would go so far as to call it a love letter, so to speak … though of course, that’s not for me to say.” After another pause he said: “Do you have a pen and paper?”
“Of course,” Jiří said, taking out a ballpoint and a scrap of paper.
“That won’t be enough. Here, sit down,” said the professor, pointing to an empty desk. Jiří sat down and the professor placed several sheets of blank lined paper in front of him. “I’ll dictate,” he said. He paused, then added, “You know, there are a few mistakes. In particular, repeated errors in the perfective and the active and passive voice. On the other hand, in a very inspiring way he has created several neologisms for which Hittite has no words, and there is also some interesting vocabulary of non-Hittite origin. I suggest that I quietly correct the errors and translate the other words into Czech as the author most likely intended. Do you agree?”