On the first sheet, written in large, neat — apparently female — handwriting, he read:
Dear Ritchie,
I couldn't phone you my love so this is just a note to say that I'll be all on my own for the next three days. Do you think you'll be able to find some way of slipping away from your Mumsie? I know you can do it. You can do anything. At least for me who loves you the most. Looking forward to you, my little doenut. A lot. .
He skipped the remaining few lines; he oughtn't even to have read the previous ones. You shouldn't read what isn't intended for you. Or rummage in letters full of bygone feelings, spelling mistakes and betrayals that we leave behind.
He recalled his fathers funeral. Hundreds of people came to it; the room at the crematorium had been full. Most of them were women, some of whom were weeping. His father had been a gynaecologist and had no doubt saved the lives of many of them or restored them to health. Maybe they included his mistresses too. By now they would probably be old ladies, if they were still alive. Sixteen years had passed since that day.
Even the serious crimes and real betrayals of the living were no longer prosecuted after that length of time.
Even the lists had almost been forgotten now, although it was only three years since they had been published. Everything slipped into the past. More quickly nowadays than before, because the times were fast-moving and forgetting was one of the ways to escape going mad.
My children don't remember Dad any more, they know their grandad only from stories and nobody is likely to tell their children about him.
So what is the point of investigating and trying to seek some son of judgement?
Judgement, he had always believed, was the Lord's when He came again in glory — the Lord who taught love and forgiveness.
But it was unlikely there would ever be any Last Judgement. It was just a fiction, just a longing for a higher justice which would redress all the wrongs and injustices committed on this earth; a fiction from the days of the first church when they were still awaiting Christ's return in their lifetime. Christ had not returned; how many wrongs would have to be judged since those days?
There was nothing more to be done with his father's life. On the other hand, he ought to do something with his own.
6
Hana
The hospital director summons all the senior nursing staff and announces to them that he already owes three months' laundry payments. In all, it come to three-quarters of a million. Unless he is able ro obtain credit from somewhere or to persuade the laundry to wait another month, they will be obliged to close down the hospital or do the laundry themselves. For the time being, he asks them to go easy on the linen and try to wash any slightly soiled items on site. He realizes this will mean extra work but he won't be able to pay them for it; he'll be happy if he can find the money to pay their salaries at the end of the month. 'The insurance companies owe me over a million crowns,' he says finally. Then he dismisses them and Hana returns to her ward where she reluctantly conveys the director's request. Recently the worries at work have grown while her sense of satisfaction has waned.
She makes herself a coffee, sits down at her small desk and tries to think of something pleasant.
A few days ago she got a call from that journalist who had showered her with kind words. He complained a bit about his health; he
had run out of tablets and he didn't feel like going to the doctor for more. He didn't feel like going out at all, in fact. He didn't feel up to it even though at home his only companions were gawping Buddhas and a stuffed canary. Then he renewed his invitation to her to come and see his collection. She told him that it would not be proper for her to visit him — unless she were to bring him his medication, it occurred to her.
Then she did pay him a visit. She was unsure why she decided to, and persuaded herself that she was only doing it in order to deliver his medicine to him.
And of course when he opened the door she told him that she wouldn't be coming in, but then let herself be persuaded to sit down for a few moments.
He made her tea — a truly fragrant and interesting tea. They drank it from almost translucent little cups and he talked non-stop the whole time. Hana realized, incredulously, that this fellow, who must have travelled the whole world over and had no doubt met distinguished personalities on many occasions, felt even shyer than she did just then.
They drank tea and she was thinking that she ought to get up and go. At one moment, when he was showing her some Japanese engraving and moved up close to her, she was scared. What would she do if he tried to cuddle her, for instance?
But he didn't.
He read her a few poems which didn't mean a great deal to her. She merely sensed in them a sadness and a yearning to escape the daily routine into a better, unreal world, where love, purity of heart, friendship, calm and order reigned. But he didn't lend her the book he had told her about. He had to read the poems through once more himself, he explained, before daring to lend them to her.
Anyway, she stayed there longer than she ought to have done. But what was the harm in it? Daniel was often away from home until late at night. And she told him about her visit that very evening. Only she did not divulge to him that when the journalist looked at her she had felt an odd excitement, or more accurately a kind of satisfaction that the man felt disconcerted by her presence. Nor did she mention that he had asked her to address him informally, and she had not refused. She was used to informality with the members of the congregation. When at last she was leaving, she shook hands with him. His handshake was, as she had expected, soft and boyishly reticent. He asked her
if she would come again some time and she replied: 'Should you ever need tablets and were unable to come for them. .'
He would definitely be needing them, he had assured her, but she had made no response.
During her visit he had tried to persuade her once more that she ought to be doing something other than her present job.
Hana now writes out who did how many hours overtime on the ward. She had never before entertained the thought that there was no longer any need for her to stay here obliging nurses to wash out soiled linen as quickly as they could. Daniel had inherited a house and sold it for a lot of money. He had told her for how much, but she had preferred not to take it in. They definitely no longer depended on her earnings.
Maybe she could do social work within the church or even establish a Diakonia centre in their own building. There were guest rooms there; one was empty and Alois was still using the other, but it was high time that he found somewhere else to live.
Not long ago, when she and Daniel were on a trip to Northern Bohemia, she had seen a centre where the handicapped were producing pottery and had even built themselves a kiln. They could try a different activity, such as weaving, painting on glass — flowers on glass — that was something she could learn to do herself and then teach it to the handicapped.
As she contemplates her potential new vocation, it occurs to her that it could open up some new avenues for her, and that she should definitely talk to Daniel about it. It's unlikely he'd reject her idea. She actually picks up the phone and tries to call him, but Daniel is neither in his office nor the flat. Eva answers and tells her that Daniel has some meeting with the moderator, but she is glad Hana has called because Daddy had left her a message to say he wouldn't be coming to the concert at the Rudolfinum this evening as they had planned. If Hana wanted, Eva could go with her instead of Daniel — 'but only if you really want me to, Mummy'. Hana says she'll be pleased for her to come, of course, and then asks if Marek and Magda are home from school yet.