No Saints or Angels

There was a time when I used to read something or listen to music. These days I no longer do that for pleasure but from fear of leading an animal existence. Not long ago I fell asleep at a concert, and on the odd occasions I read a novel, by the time I get to the end I can't remember how the thing started.

For God's sake, why is everything up to me now?

I drag myself as far as the little square in front of Capek's villa. I can't resist sitting down on the low perimeter wall. No one notices me, apart from a dog in the house opposite who starts to bark. So I'm well, but just a bit pooped, my writer wrote to his dear Olga.

Not many people read Capek these days. He's not an American writer.

As I approach our house I notice the familiar figure of the thin young man with the red hair: Jan, I can't remember the rest of his name, that ex-student of my one and only husband. But his Christian name is like our daughter's. What is he doing here? He can't be waiting for me, surely.

Now he has noticed me and is walking to meet me.

But I have no time for him. I need to talk to my unruly daughter and discover how she's been spending her time while playing truant.

The young man makes a slight bow and apologizes for waylaying me: he simply wanted to ask how his old teacher was. He rang the bell of our flat but no one was home, so he decided to wait for a while.

'There was no one in?' I ask foolishly.

No one, he repeats.

I tell him that I don't know how my ex-husband is; I haven't spoken to him since the time I visited him in hospital. I offer to give the young man Karel's phone number, but he has it already. He doesn't want to ask him directly, only to know his actual state of health.

His interest surprises me. But it's true that my ex-husband was capable of arousing people's admiration — and even love, as I myself discovered to my cost.

I am standing with this young fellow out here on the pavement, though I have no reason to. Then he says, 'The thing is that I wanted to see you again.'

I don't say, Well, you're seeing me. I don't know how to reply. But I don't intend to stand here on the pavement with him, and for the time being it's inappropriate for me to invite him in. I notice the words 'for the time being' form themselves in my mind.

'If you happen to have a few moments to spare, I noticed there was a bistro round the corner. Maybe I could invite you for a drink. .

'I've been thinking of you ever since,' he adds.

2

My darling daughter turned up in time for supper. A new chain around her waist — new, that is, for her; otherwise it's covered in bits of rust. Goodness knows what animal she stole it from. A new hole in her jeans at knee level. Black platforms, the highest she could buy. For a long time I held out against those

dreadful clodhoppers, refusing the demagogic pressure that all the girls have them now, but in the end I gave in and gave her the two thousand crowns — mostly, I expect, because when I was her age my father didn't even allow me jeans and I wasn't permitted to use lipstick. My approved footwear was fit for an elderly collective farmer. And she's even worse off than I was. She has lost half her home because I wasn't able to hold on to it for her. Let her have some enjoyment at least, I tell myself, although I know full well that no manner of rags, clodhoppers or chains will make up for her loss. And it would be wrong if they did.

'Jana, where have you been for so long?'

'At Dad's, haven't I?'

'You went to see your dad? Why didn't you let me know?'

'It was your idea, wasn't it?'

'You went to see him dolled up like that?'

'Of course.'

'What did he say about your platforms?'

'He made me take them off.'

'And you spent the whole afternoon at your dad's?'

'I went and did some shopping for him.'

'That was good of you. How is he?'

'But you know anyway, Mum. He's got awfully thin and his hands shake. I told him I'd make him some pancakes. And he said, Go ahead. And then he only managed to eat one of them. And instead of those endless lectures he always used to give me, he just sat and looked at me without saying anything.'

My daughter sits and tells me about it while munching the bread and cheese I put in front of her. It doesn't look as if her father's suffering has spoilt her appetite.

And now to change the subject: 'I was in school today,' I announce.

'Jesus Christ.'

'Not only are you about to flunk your leaving exam, but you play truant and forge my signature.'

'Did you drop me in it?'

I say nothing.

'Mum, you're a gem. But when I wrote those excuse notes, I used the proper terminology. I found the Latin names in your manual.'

For God's sake, she's proud of what a great forger she is. 'That's going to stop. I'll call the school at least once a week to make sure you're there. And if you're off traipsing around somewhere, I'll call the police and have them find you. Where do you hang out, in fact, when you're not in school?'

'It's hard to say, Mum. When it's lovely out, it really is an awful bore to sit in class.'

'So where do you sit instead?'

'In a park, for instance.'

'A park?'

'Yeah. Grôbe Gardens or Rieger Park.'

'And the pub?'

'Hardly ever.'

'Who with?'

'What do you mean?' she says, playing for time.

'You hardly sit in a pub on your own!'

'I was only twice in a pub.'

'Or three times.'

She looks at me and shrugs. 'Mum, I really don't keep count. It's not important, is it?'

'Don't try telling me what's important. What do you drink there?'

'I dunno. Cola.'

'Jana. Don't lie to me, at least.'

'No, honestly, Mum!'

'You haven't told me yet who you loaf about with.'

'I don't loaf about!'

'So what is it you're doing, then?'

Most likely she's about to explain to me that it's life, or tell

me what life isn't about, but she stops herself in time and just shrugs.

'Well, do you mind telling me who you sit around with?'

'It depends.'

'Are they all girls or are there boys too?'

'Girls mostly.'

'But boys too.'

'Very, very rarely.'

'Older?'

'How am I supposed to know? They're all thick, anyway.'

'Why do you hang around with them then?'

'It's them who come creeping after us.'

'What do you smoke?'

'How do you mean?'

'I'm asking you what you smoke.'

'But we don't smoke.'

'Don't lie to me, Jana.'

Well, I've had a drag now and then. But then you smoke too. And how. Dad's always going on about you getting kippered lungs.'

'There's a difference between us. Between me and you, I mean.'

'I'm not saying anything, am I? But Dad never smoked.'

'Don't go dragging your dad into this. Have you tried grass?'

'What grass?'

'Jana, don't try it on me. If you'd said no, I might have believed you, but I'm hardly going to believe you've never heard of it.'

'Oh right, you mean hash.' She hesitates.

'How many times?'

'But Mum, cannabis is less dangerous than your fags.'

'Jana, stop lecturing me all the time and stand up!'

She stands up.

'Take off your T-shirt and come here.'

She adopts a hurt expression, but takes off her T-shirt and stands in front of me. She doesn't wear a bra. She has my breasts, but they are still firm, like two bells.

'Show me your arms.' I examine them as best I can. Her skin is smooth, clean and fresh, without any traces of injections. Thank God. 'Jana,' I say, 'what makes you do these things?'