When he started working, then, there were no surprises. As the youngest in the firm, he was sent to the most desolate places. When there was work to do, time went by quickly, but when it rained, he didn't know how to kill time. He read a little, but the available books could not, for the most part, hold his interest. Sometimes, even when it was raining, he would go out for a run, but he would always end up sitting with strangers in village pubs, drinking with them and having the kind of conversations he'd have had in the same place back home. After his fifth or sixth beer, he no longer needed to drink or talk, or even listen too carefully. The world rolled itself into a cone in which he could exist quite comfortably until the time came to sleep. He would wake up with an aching head, overwhelmed by an emptiness that could not be dispelled.
A year ago, when he was twenty-seven, he had been sent to survey in the south of Moravia. He lived in a hamlet that was 156 metres above sea-level. The highest point of land was seven metres above that. Moaning winds blew across the flat expanses. Sometimes, when he climbed to the top of the church tower and looked across the river, he would catch glimpses of neat houses in Austrian villages and brightly coloured cars that flashed by on Austrian roads. In such moments, he was overcome by strange misgivings. Something was going on outside, in the world, and his time was standing still.
The people in the hamlet seemed nice enough. They drank wine and loved to talk and sing noisily. He drank beer and took no part in the singing. Once, when he was walking back to his dormitory, he left the road. For a while he wandered along in a ditch, until he finally collapsed under a thick blackthorn bush. The cold in the middle of
the night awakened him. Above his head little drops of dew, illuminated by moonlight, glistened on the leaves and branches. He knew that he should get up and go back to the dormitory. His head was clear, clearer then it had ever been during the day, and for that reason he knew that it didn't matter where he was lying, or whether he caught a cold or even died of exposure. He closed his eyes again and fell asleep.
Next morning, he realized that things were beginning to go wrong in his life, and he was astonished at how little it bothered him. Nevertheless, when Friday came around and he was getting ready to go home, he changed into his good clothes as usual, because his parents were proudly expecting their son, the surveyor.
On the train he developed a thirst and when he got out, he stopped for a beer and missed the last bus. It was at least a two-hour walk home, and it was going to rain. Fortunately, he hadn't forgotten how to run. In a small park behind a school he noticed a girl sitting on a bench with her head in her hands. He ran past her, but he came back. The wind whipped up swirls of dust on the path and it began to rain. He didn't know why the girl was crying, or even how he could comfort her. But it didn't seem right to leave her there. He helped her up, and they ran into a kind of passageway for shelter. He know nothing about her, but he tried to cheer her up, or at least to get her mind off her troubles. When the rain slackened, he walked her home. He gave her his address; she wrote to him. But she never told him why she was crying in the park, and they never talked about it afterwards. He spent a whole evening composing a reply. He was unaccustomed to writing letters, particularly this kind, but the letter worked.
When they were married a few months ago, colleagues and school friends gathered from all over the country. Two came on horseback dressed in white and yellow leggings and long, dark blue overcoats, the kind the imperial military engineers used to wear. Afterwards they persuaded him and his bride to mount a horse and ride through a triumphal arch of red and white striped surveying stakes.
They were expecting a child just before Christmas. By the time the child was born, the surveyor would be living at home. This is, in fact, his last surveying job; as of next year, he was changing employers.
Had he found something more interesting?
No, not really. He'd be spending most of his time in an office, but he'd be able to go home every evening. That's the way his wife wanted it, and it would be better for the child as well.
I couldn't imagine my father ever showing any concern for my mother or me while he was working. He never doubted that work took precedence over everything else. My father believed, as his father did before him, in the unambiguous benefits of his work.
I asked the surveyor if he wanted a son or a daughter. He shrugged his shoulders. 'It makes no difference. Women have a hard life — and so do we, in different ways. My wife says she doesn't care either,' he added. 'But she'd prefer a girl. She thinks she'd get along better with a girl, and besides, a girl wouldn't have to do time in the army.'
He never mentioned his wife by name. Perhaps he was trying to preserve his privacy and her mystery.
We were on top of the hill by the water tower, looking for our lost triangulation point again.
By precise calculations, the surveyor had determined that
the point should be the same distance from the edge of the concrete slabs, but slightly above the place we'd first begun to dig. In fact, all we needed to do was lengthen our original hole.
I expressed admiration for a science that, by measuring from a distant church tower, could accurately locate any point on the earth's surface. But I still didn't believe we could find the missing stone.
The surveyor started digging down towards the hypothetical point. I shovelled the loose dirt out of the hole.
'They must have at least left the marker here somewhere,' he said as he doggedly stabbed the ground with the probe.
But they hadn't. All we could do was install a new one. Why wouldn't he do so? I preferred not to ask.
As usual, we returned as it was getting dark. I couldn't tell whether he felt badly about not finding the stone, or whether he was content to be able to report, with some certainty, that the point had been destroyed.
At home, he retired to his three-legged table, turned on his radio and began to work something out. Later he appeared in my room. 'I've just heard an interesting programme,' he announced. 'Have you heard of the "Big Bang"?'
I had.
'So listen to this,' he said excitedly. 'They apparently calculated the volume of the material from which everything else, the whole universe, was made.'
'Is that possible?'
He shrugged his shoulders to indicate that he took no responsibility for the information. 'They claim the volume can be expressed by the figure ten to the minus fifty cubic metres.'
'That's pretty small.'
'Small? It's less than nothing. The diameter of an atom is something on the order of ten to the minus eight cubic metres. Can you imagine that?'
I had to admit that I couldn't.
The Countryside
I BROUGHT the girl who worked in the stationery shop the plastic figurine representing the hideous-looking E.T., but I couldn't give it to her right away. That morning, we set out before the store opened, and by the time we returned she was already gone. I'd have to wait for a rainy day, when we'd stay at home. That wasn't the only thing I'd reserved for a rainy day. There was also a package of books I hoped to read.
But that autumn turned out to be the driest we'd ever had and I saw the girl only once. I'd lost a pencil that morning, and I went into the store to buy a new one.
There were no customers in the shop. The girl was sitting behind the counter reading. 'It's you?' she said, astonished. 'I thought you'd gone. I never see you around.' She stood up and groaned. 'Everything hurts today,' and she ran her hands over both hips. 'Somewhere over by Hlinsko they say they've found this really fantastic healer who works miracles. Have you heard of him?'