Over recent years, he says, whenever he met Jana he noticed how she was coming to resemble me more and more. She must have inherited my genes rather than his. When he first met me, he recalls, I was just like that. I used to hang around with a crowd in pubs and get drunk; drugs were still a rarity then. But I lacked any sense of order or respectability.
I point out that I've changed since then.
But in his view a sense of order is something innate.
'I made a mistake being born at all, then.'
He asks me not to be sarcastic and then launches into a pedagogical lecture on the proper upbringing of children. Of course he names all my failings, of which I'm perfectly well aware: I didn't like cooking, I skimped on shopping, I was no good at managing money and spent a lot on clothes for myself, not to mention my
smoking or the many times I spent the evening with some girlfriends and came home in high spirits. What was our little girl to think? What sort of example did I set her?
I know that litany off by heart. How many times did I listen to it contritely while we were still living together. I would stand up for myself and defend my right to a bit of privacy, a little bit of space for myself and those I chose to allow in. I never won though, and always ended up feeling like a whipped cur. I did try to cut down on my smoking, but it didn't last long, maybe because it was one of the few joys I had in life.
And after all, a good example is far more important than any amount of talking, proscriptions or prescriptions, my former husband continues.
I ought to pull myself together. After all I'm in no way subordinate to him any more. I shouldn't let myself be cowed by a man who abandoned me, who ran away from me and our daughter. Let each of us deal with our problems as best we can.
Even so I don't contradict him but simply get up in the middle of his tirade and leave the room.
Once I'm outside in the street it strikes me he was right about one thing: I behaved like Jana. But I forgot to pick up the plate with the apricot tart and smash it on the floor.
4
The building is a farmhouse built of timber, somewhat the worse for wear, which stands alone on the edge of an upland meadow. The track that leads to it is so narrow that if two cars were to meet head on they wouldn't be able to pass. We pull up just by the front door. A little gypsy girl peeps out of it and then disappears inside again. There is a barn next to the farmhouse, and hens and ducks move here and there in the space between them. We can hear the squeal of hungry pigs from a nearby sty.
'It's beautiful, don't you think?' my sister asks.
'The countryside is splendid,' I say cautiously. 'Now in summer, anyway.'
The head therapist receives us in his office which contains nothing but a table, a chair, a filing cabinet and on the wall a picture of Sigmund Freud alongside a coloured print of some saint or other. Freud, the saint and the therapist all sport beards, but the latter also has a shock of black hair and, unlike the saint and Freud, he wears a T-shirt with the inscription christian youth club. He and Lida are on first-name terms. She addresses him as Radek.
He asks me to tell him in detail about Jana. I make an effort to mention all the details, including those I'm ashamed of, namely, that my daughter seemingly not only lied to me but also stole from me.
Then he wants to know if anyone in my family took drugs or was addicted in any other way.
So I admit my smoking and the fact that I drink wine every day albeit in moderation. When I was young I used to get drunk sometimes, but that's really a long time ago. Her father, on the other hand, was exemplary in that respect. Compared to him I damage my health and he used to criticize me for it.
He makes notes on a pad, nodding his head from time to time as if to say, Yes, that's the way it goes. But in fact he says nothing and simply invites me to see over the home.
The house is spacious and austere. Everything looks shabby; the furniture could easily come from some warehouse of dead stock or discarded junk. I notice that some of the windowpanes are smashed or cracked. But otherwise it is clean — the floors are still damp from mopping, and there is no clutter. But I'm less interested in things than in the people Jana would have to mix with. But how much can one tell during a short visit? One lad — he could be twenty — is grinding something in an antique hand-mill, another is wheeling some dung in a wheelbarrow, the little gypsy
girl is sawing logs with another young man. For a moment they remind me of target figures in a shooting gallery, except that they all wear jeans and T-shirts.
In the kitchen, two girls are preparing the evening meal. We then visit one of the bedrooms. It contains three beds; on one of them, a young woman with drawn features is sitting smoking; she doesn't seem to register our presence.
'What's up, Monika?' the therapist asks.
'I don't want to go on living,' she says, without looking at him.
'You'll get over it. And we'll talk about it this evening,' he promises.
'She's only been here two weeks,' he informs us when we have left the bedroom, as if to apologize for the fact that there is someone here who doesn't want to go on living. He needn't apologize to me. I've known the feeling so often that sometimes I'm amazed that I'm still alive.
When we return to his office, the therapist tells me that Jana can come here if we like, but the decision must be hers alone. No one will force her to stay here. 'We have a group therapy session with them every day,' he says, 'and everyone must work; it's part of the therapy. When they improve, they can attend school, but it's a fair distance from here and not easy to get to in winter.' He warns me that the routine is strict. 'Drugs are banned, of course, but alcohol and sex aren't allowed either. If they smoke, they may receive cigarettes. At first they have to stay here; during the first month we don't allow either letters or visits. Whoever breaks the rules has to leave the home. If anyone finds the regime too harsh, they may leave. If anyone runs away, they have to leave. And conditions tend to be harsh here, particularly in winter,' he says, once more recalling the winter conditions.
'Winter is quite far off yet,' I say, hoping he'll agree with me.
'Not as far off as you'd think.' And he adds, as if to destroy any false hopes I might have, 'From what you've told me about Jana, I wouldn't think she'd be home before winter. Cured, I mean.
You should definitely arrange for her to interrupt her studies.' He then goes on to say that half of those who manage to complete the entire course of therapy never go back to drugs. Finally he tells me how much I am to contribute each month. There are a lot of other things I'd like to ask about, but he makes his excuses as a group therapy session is due to start in a moment and he cannot invite us to it, unfortunately. But even if I stayed here longer, what else could he tell me? Everything will depend on Jana. I can't imagine her sawing wood or mucking out the pigs; I've spoilt her too much for that.
On the way home, Lida and I stop off at a village pub. She just has bread and cheese, while I have a bowl of goulash soup. I'm famished, not having had anything to eat since morning, but on top of that my stomach is churning at the thought of taking Jana off to some far-flung wilderness where I won't even be able to visit her.
'Don't worry,' my sister tells me. 'He'll help her. He's excellent. He knows how to find the cause, and that's the main thing.' She hesitates a moment before adding, 'He helped me too.'
'You?'
'Are you so surprised?'
'I didn't have a clue.'
'It was eight years ago and I attended him as an outpatient. I didn't tell you, or the old folks for that matter. It was nothing to do with you: it was my business. Mine above all.'