tape was handed in after the trip. If we had gone over the limit anywhere, we'd be fined.
He also told me that initially we'd only be hauling 320 tonnes, and would be picking up another eighty on the way. It wasn't a lot, but it was enough for those hills, especially if we had to get underway on a slope. Starting was the only thing that needed a little practice, so that the couplings wouldn't pull loose, or the wheels begin to spin. The first time, he would start himself. I would also have to realize that I was not sitting in a car, that 400 tonnes was a substantial weight and when I was going downhill I should be careful not to go too quickly and fly off the rails. And when going uphill I had to make sure I didn't lose speed. If I did, I would find myself standing still before I knew it.
At that moment, I noticed the signal ahead had turned from red to green. Despite myself I felt a twinge of excitement. 'Keep your head down for now,' Martin said, and leaning but of the side window he waved his hand to the dispatcher, turned the half-wheel slightly and, while I obediently crouched in a corner, we pulled out of the station.
The awakening countryside began to flow past us, but I paid little attention; I was looking at the speed signs: the speed limit here was low, and the whistle signals came one after another.
'You can take over now,' he said, turning to me and making room on the seat. 'Don't forget the alert button. If you want, I'll push it for you, for now.'
I said that I would try to press it myself. I sat down in front of the control panel, but the machine was not aware of this change. It was going by itself, as it was meant to do. The little light above the alert button came on at regular
intervals, but I always managed to deactivate it in time, so that the machine didn't honk at me. The track began to rise gently and, mindful of my mentor's advice, I turned the accelerator a little. Thus we went through several stations, at least twenty level crossings, some with gates, some without, the engine rumbling regularly and the needle on the speedometer steady. The speed limit varied from thirty to fifty kilometres an hour, and on the whole, I managed to accelerate or decelerate that enormous mass of metal smoothly. It was only after a while that I saw what an unusual view I had of the track unwinding in front of me, and heard the regular sound of the wheels clacking over the joints in the rails.
After an hour my instructor, who until now had kept a keen eye on the track, the engine, and my actions, took out his lunch, leaned up against the wall by the locker, and poured himself a cup of tea. More than any words could have done, his actions expressed his confidence in my capacities as an engine driver.
At one of the stations the guard came into the cabin and, paying no attention whatsoever to me, as though having a guest driver were absolutely normal, he began to talk about people I couldn't have known, one of whom was a colleague who got so drunk on duty that he couldn't even stand up, and was in that state when an inspector found him.
The story interested me, but at the same time I couldn't really listen, though I gathered that nothing happened to the drunken engine driver; he had faked an acute attack of lower back pain, and who would be so cruel as to compel a colleague suffering from excruciating pain to submit to a breathalyser test?
It seemed to me that the two of them were enjoying themselves and not paying any attention to the track, but suddenly my friend called out, 'D'you see them? Now you can blow your horn at them.'
It was then that I noticed, at the level crossing we were approaching, a yellow and white automobile with the widely ridiculed letters on it.
'If only they could see you like this,' he laughed, 'those brothers of theirs, the ones who hung all that nonsense on you.'
I gave a blast on the horn. Perhaps I actually caught a glimpse of Her at that moment. At least I thought I saw Her sitting there: all bone, her favourite disguise, grinning and showing her teeth at me, while I flashed past. Now I was aware of the massive weight I was controlling, and I saw the wagons behind me in a bend in the tracks and I surrendered to the illusion that I was pulling them along with my own enormous power. I had crossed Her path.
'Can you brake a little? Were going downhill anyway,' he reminded me.
I understood why he had invited me, offered me the opportunity, for a moment at least, to cross paths with Her, so that I would know I was not battling Her alone.
'You forgot the alert button,' he said immediately afterwards, reproachfully.
In an instant I returned to my place and pressed the button, as a sign that I was still alive.
The Courier's Story
One
I DIDN'T GET to the institute until nine; they almost never had anything to deliver before then anyway. They seldom had much after nine either. It was summer and most of the employees were on holiday. Besides that, the mainframe computer in Strašnice was down, so there weren't even the usual reams of print-outs to deliver. I took the stairs to the office on the fourth floor. I don't trust the elevator; I see no reason why elevators should be exempt from the general state of disrepair that holds everywhere and, in any case, I like going under my own steam.
The office was usually occupied by the secretary and the manager. Both were young and sweet, and each was pretty in her own way and liked to chat. The mail, if there was any, would be laid out for me on the table beside the door. Today only the manager was in and my table was empty or, to be more precise, it held only a vase full of gladioli. I said hello, and the manager looked up. 'You needn't have come at all today,' she said by way of welcome.
But I love coming here,' I replied. 'I look forward to seeing you.'
She laughed. 'Have you heard the latest definition of socialism?' And she told me one of the many merciless
jokes against the system we live under, and against which we are forbidden to grumble, for it is allegedly the best, the most just and the most humane way of organizing human affairs. In return, I told her another definition.
The telephone interrupted our illicit diversion. When the manager hung up, she asked, 'Do you know how Julinka is doing?'
I didn't.
Julinka Vandasová was the wife of one of the programmers. I had never met her, but I knew what she looked like from the photographs her husband kept under a sheet of glass on his desk. She looked delicate and gentle. Yesterday she was operated on for a cyst that was supposed to be benign. She had two little girls and all the women in the institute were wondering how Mr Vandas would cope by himself. 'I called Chodov this morning,' the manager announced, 'but Peter hadn't come in yet. Are you going over there today?'
'If they have anything for me.'
'They don't,' she said. 'I've already asked. They've finished work now in Strašnice, and they say there's a terrible jam at the the mainframe in Vršovice.'
'Anyway,' I said, 'maybe something will show up there during the day.'
'Whatever you think. If I were in your place, I could. . ' and she began daydreaming about all the things she could do if all she had to do was run errands. 'If you're going there anyway, take this with you. Nobody reads it, of course, but it's just arrived.' She took several copies of the in-house journal from her drawer. And,' she said, getting up and walking over to the table, 'if you could give Vandas these and say they're for Julinka.' She took three gladioli