The Ultimate Intimacy

'But you know I'm not an irresponsible person.' He has recently been elected chairman of the board of a printing company and he sets rather too much store by it. He wears only white shirts these days and even on this hot June day he has come dressed in a jacket and tie.

'It's possible to act responsibly at work and less so towards one's nearest and dearest.'

'If you only knew the sleepless nights I've had over it, Reverend Brother. You wouldn't believe how much soul-searching I've gone through before reaching this decision.'

'I believe you.'

'Máša was my first woman. I knew nothing about life.'

'At that time maybe, but now you're the father of four children.'

'But what am I supposed to do, Reverend Brother, now I don't love her any more?'

'It's up to oneself whom one does or doesn't love.'

'No, I can't any more. I simply can't stand her. When I see her looking shattered every morning, with tears in her eyes, it spoils my whole day.'

'But she's shattered because of you.'

'She's shattered on her own account. She's not built for today's world. Or any world, for that matter. She's like an old rag, if you'll

excuse me, Reverend, for using the expression about the mother of my children.'

'Maybe you didn't give her enough support.'

'That's not true. I gave her everything she ever asked for.'

'Love too?'

'Love, too, while I could.'

'Don't you feel even a tiny bit of sympathy?'

'I did — while I could. But all I feel now is anger. That she's standing in the way of my life.'

'Those are very wicked words.'

'You're driving me to say them, Reverend. Because I feel you privately condemn me.'

'I never condemn anyone. And what about the children?'

'The children go around crying. And they're fearful of what s going to happen. The youngest one, the little mite, is always begging us not to quarrel! Do you think that's any sort of home for them? They'll be better off when I've taken them with me.'

'Without their mother?'

'She wasn't a good mother. Someone like her can't be good at anything.'

The phone rings. 'Excuse me,' he says to Soukup.

'This is Bára. Bára Musilová. Do you still remember me?'

'Of course.'

'You wrote that I could come and see you on Mondays or Wednesdays.'

It occurs to him that the woman is raising her voice needlessly; even the person sitting opposite him must hear every word. 'Of course,' he says, in as official a manner as possible.

'So that means today too?'

'How soon?' He glances at his watch.

As long as it takes me to get from here to you.'

'All right, you'd better come then.' He hangs up before she has a chance to reply.

'I'll be going, Reverend. You won't understand me whatever I say'

'Understanding is not the same as approving.'

'You condemn me.'

'I never condemn anyone,' he repeats wearily.

'I'm a home-breaker in your eyes. I've broken several commandments in one go.'

'We all break the commandments from time to time, but you can't expect me to be thrilled about it.'

'There are commandments that are worse to break.'

'It is not up to us to judge.'

'Yes, I know. But there are people capable of killing someone who gets in their way. Surely it is better to separate peacefully.'

'Certainly. And the best thing of all is to live in peace.'

'I can't any longer.'

'All right. Act according to your conscience. But be aware of one thing: this action is capable of turning against you one day.'

The man opposite thanks him and gets up from the armchair. He is pale and his thin lips are pursed so tightly that they are almost invisible.

Daniel recalls Soukup from the time he was still a member of the youth section. They met at summer camp. A fervent and even fanatical exponent of scripture, he once argued that people who did not obey the Ten Commandments could not be Christians. Martin Hájek had disputed this, saying that if that were so there would not be a single Christian left on earth. How many years ago was that? At least fifteen. People even forget what happened a week ago. Having a good memory tends to be a disadvantage.

It occurs to him that this man might actually commit murder one day. The worst thing would be that he would then demand that others should understand him. All he was doing was removing an obstacle in the way of his life.

Someone knocks and the woman architect enters. On this hot day she has decided to wear a short-sleeved blouse and a skirt that almost reaches down to her ankles. She is wearing slightly scuffed and down-at-heel canvas shoes. The skirt is black, the blouse white. She has a black fabric handbag slung across her shoulder.

She sits down in the armchair at the coffee table. 'So, here I am,' she announces. 'In a moment you'll be sorry you didn't say you weren't available.'

'It's not my habit to say I'm not available.'

'No, I suppose you can't really. You're not allowed to lie, are you. But you could have said you didn't have the time. Or told me that there was nothing for me to come here for. So I really am grateful.'

'Would you expect me to say: There's nothing for you to come here for?'

'No, I wouldn't.'

'So don't thank me. There's nothing to thank me for.'

'There is. Your own flock is big enough and you're bound to be tired of ail the complaints they heap on you.' She takes a small white handkerchief out of her handbag and fiddles with it in her fingers. All the while she stares fixedly at him. She has large eyes the colour of dark honey; he would even call them Semitic. Her gaze unnerves him.

'There are more tiresome occupations. And I am doing this job of my own free will.'

'But it was not at all my intention to complain. I have an interesting occupation, a faithful husband, splendid children, fantastic friends and a dear old mother. I wanted to be an actress, but then I decided to practise architecture, which I now do, a bit, at least. I'm a "happy woman", in fact.'

'There aren't many happy people.'

'Aren't you happy?'

'I can't complain.'

'Sorry, it was a stupid question. All I meant to say was that a lot of people would be happy in my situation, and I realize that fate has mostly been good to me. I ought to say the Good Lord, as I'm sitting in the manse. Is that a picture of Comenius over there?'

'It is.' He also has two of his old wood carvings on the shelf. He is relieved that she seems not to have noticed them.

'Was he a member of your church?'

'No, but that's not really important, is it? I don't classify people according to the church they belong to.'

'So how do you classify them?'

'I endeavour not to classify them at all.'

She takes a packet of cigarettes out of her handbag. 'Would you like a cigarette?'

'I haven't smoked in a long time.'

'I thought not. Will it bother you if I smoke?'

'Not if it doesn't bother you.'

She lights a cigarette but exhales the smoke to one side. 'I'll ask you the question, then. When you wrote to me about love, what did you understand by the word?'

'There is no precise answer to that question. Everyone understands something different by the word.'

'But what do you understand by it?'

'Maybe the ability to sacrifice yourself for others. Or service. Or the ability to be with others when they need you.'

'That is also a service. But that kind of love is one-sided, isn't it? If everyone wanted to be self-sacrificing and serve, there'd be no one to sacrifice oneself for and no one to serve.'

'It's also a way to overcome anxiety.'

'Anxiety about what?'

'Loneliness. Death.'

'But you love God first and foremost. Christ. Or am I wrong?'