Ondřej tried to put a few more questions to him, but we both realized that nothing would come of it. The old man hid behind his eighty years and the half-century that had elapsed since the period that interested us; he pretended to remember nothing, no event, none of the names of those he interrogated, not a single name of those who collaborated with him. All he could remember was the name of a football coach. The witnesses who could
testify against him were all dead and what we really had against him was long ago covered by the statute of limitations.
There was no point in wasting any more time and giving this man the satisfaction of still managing to win a battle with the class enemy in his eightieth year. The statement I compiled contained not a single fact that might explain anything.
'A nice quiet old man,' I said as we drove back to Prague. 'A pity he didn't show us his parrot.'
'Canary' Ondřej corrected me. 'Maybe he's really fond of it. Under a normal regime he wouldn't have interrogated anyone or tortured them. He'd have spent his life making tables or coffins. The fact he had no conscience wouldn't matter to anyone; no one would even notice. What will we do with him now? Just recently a message came through from the ministry saying we waste money. I'm beginning to think they're right. We squander time and use up petrol. And on the odd occasion that we put a case together, it never comes to anything. The public prosecutor's office cheerfully returns everything to us, saying that it is insufficient for them to initiate proceedings. They imagine that after fifty years it's possible to find the same sort of witnesses and evidence as in a case about something that happened a month ago.'
'They imagine nothing of the sort,' I objected. 'It just suits them to use that pretence.'
Then the two of us fell silent. I was overcome with despondency. I thought about the fact that this very man had once wielded power over my father; he'd actually beaten him and tortured him for weeks, as well as dozens of others that we'd never find out about and never finish counting. We are powerless to do anything with him because, unlike him, we recognize the presumption of innocence. Because unlike him, we are decent people.
Maybe I'm a decent person, but at that moment it was more of a hindrance. I had the feeling I'd failed yet again; this was something else I hadn't managed to bring to a conclusion; in the name
of some higher law I had merely looked on as that beast ridiculed his victims. If only I'd told him what I thought of him!
It looks as if Dad will never receive justice anyway. And what about me?
I felt such a void before me that all of a sudden I didn't even feel like living.
What will I manage to achieve? What am I to set my hopes on?
On the way back I also thought anxiously about Kristýna. I'd lose her too, one day. Love is another area of my life where I'm unable to make the grade.
When I met her the following day I asked her if she knew the precise time of her birth.
'Do you want to make my horoscope?' she said in surprise. 'You'd better not. You might discover something dreadful about me.'
'I just wanted to see what my chances were.'
She told me the hour of her birth, but like most people, she didn't know the precise minute, and yet even a four-minute difference could lead to an error. But I compiled her horoscope as responsibly as I could and investigated the prospects of our relationship. Even though our elements, fire and water, seemed irreconcilable, we'd had hopes of setting up home together. According to ancient astrology we were both subject to Jupiter, who rules the household.
Kristýna is almost certainly highborn. She is like an underground lake. There is hidden within her a passion which, if it erupted, could be life-giving but also destructive. Not for those around her but for herself.
She is kind and caring, and her wish is to ease people's pain, which is why she does what she does, even though life held out many other possibilities to her. She is magnanimous but also anxiety-prone. She longs to marry but fears betrayal. So what hope do I have? I don't know.
We get on well together. I've never experienced with her the sense of emptiness that I've felt with other women. It struck me
that she experienced everything to the full, including each of our conversations, in a way I'd never encountered before. For her everything took place on the boundary between joy and grief, delight and suffering. She avoided the idle chatter enjoyed by most of the women I'd known.
Sometimes she would talk to me about her patients and the quirks of fate and reversals of fortune they experienced, but mostly we spoke about the quirks of fate and reversals of fortune of the people whose lives I researched.
I was more categorical in my judgements than she was. I told her about Dad. I also mentioned the encounter with the fellow in the old people's home, who I'm sure was his interrogator. I told her of our powerlessness in the face of criminals who pretended loss of memory. I asserted that nothing had really been done here to evaluate the guilt of those who helped to suppress the freedom of others, and told her I would therefore do everything in my power to ensure that their guilt was still assessed retrospectively and punished if possible.
Kristýna maintained that it would be to nobody's benefit to do so. Who was to judge, when almost everyone was entangled either willingly or otherwise. And in fact we keep on getting entangled. 'In the way that you're maybe getting entangled with me,' she said.
I didn't understand what she meant.
'My dad was a member of the militia and in charge of political screening,' she explained. 'He would have considered your father his enemy.'
'And would you have agreed with him?' I asked.
'I couldn't stand him. I couldn't stand my father,' she repeated. 'As soon as I started to understand anything, I didn't even want to see him or speak to him.'
'You see,' I said. 'You virtually lost your father while he was still alive. So what do you mean by entanglement.'
'In your father's eyes, mine was also unacceptable,' she said, 'and
now the two of us are lying here together. Neither of them would have approved. Your mother wouldn't either.'
'It's great we're lying here together, since we love each other,' I said. 'And don't drag our parents into it.'
Later, when I was leaving, I realized that her father was indeed one of those who had persecuted mine. It's not her fault, just as it's not my fault that my father was the persecuted one. Even so, I prefer not to think about our different backgrounds. I ignore them and intend to ignore them, just as I ignore Kristýna's cigarette smoke even though I can even smell it in her hair.
In fact, the only way to exist is by ignoring the things we don't like and the things about people and the world that could disturb us.
6
It's almost 8 p.m. and Jana isn't home from school yet. Today they received their school reports. My daughter made an effort to temper her insolence with appeasement and announced to me yesterday that she would fail maths and expected at least five Ds and a B for conduct. I made up my mind not to shout at her or reproach her in any way. But she didn't come home.
First I rang Mum, in case she'd gone there, and then Jana's best friend. I managed to catch her in, but she didn't know anything about Jana, or so she maintained, at least.
Shortly afterwards Mum called me and told me to do something.
'I know, but what?'
'You know how it is,' she presses me. 'Children get bad marks and out of bad conscience or fear they run away or even do something to themselves.'
'Who would Jana be afraid of, Mum?'
'You ought to know.'
'Jana isn't a child any more. Maybe she just went somewhere with her pals.'