Lovers for a Day

THE ASSEMBLY LINE

1

What a morning, a totally uncitylike morning, blue sky above the rooftops, a sky like a seascape, wouldn't it be great to be sailing on it, and fields, it'd be great: ever onwards, if only it were possible to go onwards for ever, never land, never disembark, just ever onwards and the sun would go on rising and you as well, don't just stand there gawking, move along and climb aboard, the tram full of heat, the stench of bodies, suddenly his legs went to jelly, because he didn't manage to have a wash, and the day ahead of him — there was still a chance, but only if the workshop collapsed or there was a plague, CLOSED DUE TO PLAGUE, then I'd head off with Ladya, closed due to plague, oh, Jesus, maybe Eva would go too, even though she went and got married, pity, we'd all head off, closed due to plague, there was still a chance today; he dashed towards the gate and from a distance he could make out a white notice, the letters blurred, closed, if only it said

closed, but it was only an announcement of a meeting for all staff, he should have known, he spat, the time clock, the mechanical watchdog, the unsmiling watchdog of your life, open your jaws you beast, six-o-four, he dashed past the watchman and across the grey yard full of swirling ash, pushed the door open with his shoulder, workshop number one, past the rumbling presses, Anča cutting tin as usual, it's already given her a back like a hazel stick, like a bow, they should cut you out a hole in the ground, you wouldn't have to bend so much — if I were an engineer. . but then who'd care about you, another door and he could already see them standing in that never-ending never-changing row, as every month, as on every summer day and every rainy and miserable and snowy day and on the day he died too if only he could come and take a look then: at one end a bald patch at the other end Eva — hair rinsed the colour of a duckling, she's got married, can't be helped — an empty space alongside Ladya, that's mine, one big and three small cogs in the right hand, two small axles in the left, slide them on, let them click into place, test them, then take four screws and screw them into the holes, hang it up, the foreman's standing in for me now, he's not foreman any more, he's me, that's the kind of place it is: whoever turns up (it could be a preacher or a tight-rope walker, a one-legged deaf wrestler; he could have been that morning at his mother's funeral or come from his first time with a girl) that same day would have to take one big and three small cogs in his right hand and reach for the axles with his left. The foreman's gaze was fixed on the hands of the clock, that was something he could do while he was working, everyone could, stare and think, and even think, while the index finger of his right hand fitted the axle exactly into the holes in the casing. The

foreman opened his mouth full of greyish.porcelain teeth, there's going to be another speech like on television, move off instead, Jesus, it's only six-ten, nine in fact, but it'll soon be ten, while I look at it and the foreman goes on gassing, anyway it's a waste of. . one big and three small cogs, now he's finished, Marie's wearing a sweater of some kind today, one big cog, it's all hot air anyway, one day he'll come and he won't find me here, believe me, that's one day I'd just love to be here, what bliss, and just to look at his face, except that by then I'll be riding my own horse, four screws, screw them in the holes… at last he's. . and it's peaceful, the conveyor belt moves along quietly, take it off and hang it up, Marie's screwdriver squeaks, six-sixteen, an odd stain on the white wall, a strange bluish blotch. He chased it down a totally white road, through an alley of damp-leaved cherry trees, steam rose from the meadows, hi there! under the trees two fellows jumped up and waved madly.

He stopped.

Sorry, something terrible's happened. He's dead, most likely.

They made him follow them with his motorbike across the field. The tyres became clogged with red clay. He was lying behind a thick hedge. His shirt torn, blood — a fish-shaped knife sticking out of his chest. He leaned over the man. But of course, he assured himself, the blade went straight into the heart. Was he anything to do with you?

No, thank goodness.

He flexed the dead man's elbow, this man must have died just a moment ago, and then he noticed the footprints running directly from there, the narrow footprints of a woman, little indents left by the heels, he kick-started the motor, for a few more moments he could still hear that cry of despair, 'what

could he. . and he was already dashing off on the trail like a bloodhound. The motor howled up the hill; it's going to suffer again. Now he had to give some thought to where he was actually going, what sort of trail he was following, what he was letting himself in for. He inhaled the deep chill of the forest, a mossy chill, rotting pine needles, slimy roots, pale tree fungi. She stumbled along just ahead of him, still trying to escape. A feeble, desperate attempt. Why are you running away, I might. . she turned her face to him and he could make out eyes wide with fear — dog-brown eyes.

Was that your…?

No.

Yes, it's okay. I could tell.

He liked the look of her. She was so extremely, so incredibly, beautiful. Whatever had happened for her to. . He lifted her up cautiously. She had to sit behind him. The touch of her fingers passed through his flanks like drops of warm rain, like kisses and made him shudder. At last it was here, the big moment, at last he could just go on, driving ever onwards, day and night, never stopping, and the low swaying woods rushing past, damp rocks and still the touch of her fingers and her warm breath.

'This is awful shoddy stuff,' Ladya protested. 'Look, this is the third one today.' And he tossed the part into the crate behind him.

'Yeah.'

'I came looking for you yesterday with Libuše. We were going for a swim.'

Six thirty-seven. The first ray of sunlight shot through the window and landed on the table just in front of him.

'It's going to be another scorcher,' said Ladya. 'Can't you

make it today at all? You could bring that girlfriend of yours, that Blanka.'

'I'm not sure.' After all, his yacht was already swaying in the breeze out there in the gulf ready to sail. He was lying with Matt on the green deck: the tom-cat was asleep in the unbearable burning heat of the sun. The water stank. On the nearby shore they were madly dancing the twist and he observed the gyrating couples through his telescope; a white-trousered saxophonist, sailors, girls in almost transparent dresses. They staggered in rhythm. He liked the one in the cherry-red dress: tanned legs and almost-white hair. And her back virtually bare. Would you care to dance?

She shrugged.

I expect she can't understand me, but so what. . He gestured with his head and she set off after him, down the stone steps and the wooden gangplank across the narrow strip of water separating his boat from the shore. He sent Matt off below deck, started the engine and sat down at the wheel. She was sitting side-on to him, her legs dangling over the side of the boat and almost skimming the green waves and white surf— those naked, tanned legs.

Don't sit there like that! And when she didn't budge he secured the wheel. The smooth, naked, tanned shoulders. She turned her face to him. She moved her lips: where 'were they heading, or, or. . There was no reply to that anyway, so instead he said, Babe, you're fantastic, I'm really gone on you, you're like a. . a. . He leaned over her and she opened her lips slightly, ever so slightly, the narrowest of gaps, but even so he caught sight of pure whiteness, he continued to grip her shoulders and it suddenly felt as if they were gradually leaning backwards and he leaned over with them and then fell and

almost cried out except that it was a light, unbearably light, dizzy fall, he checked himself mid-way, his left hand was already fitting the axle, but his right had let go of the cogs, the conveyor belt had stopped, ten to eight. Marie was still tightening screws, but then she put down her screwdriver, stretched herself slightly and sat down on an upturned crate. 'I feel so. .' she said.

He wiped his hands on his trousers and moved back several paces to where he had a little three-legged cobbler's stool ready and waiting and pulled a sandwich out of his pocket — he wasn't hungry but he never knew what to do during the first break. The others were sitting around, holding forth. He had never had the gift of the gab and anyway he still couldn't get used to the fact he wasn't an apprentice any more and had the same rights as everyone else; they even turned and talked in his direction too. He sat there on the cobbler's stool, tall and thin, staring at them, chewing slowly.

Then he got up and had to go round the whole conveyor belt, and through the narrow concrete alley between the machines. A layer of dust stuck to the windowpanes but it was still possible to see the narrow yard through them. A few dozen motorbikes stood there, one old chestnut tree was shedding its blossoms, and above the yard, above the dark sooty wall, towered an enormous chimney, and above that the sky, a sky as narrow as the yard. It was still clear blue.

It's going to be another real scorcher. He had just two minutes left. Between this window and the next stood an aquarium on an iron base. Eva stood by it holding a white cardboard cone in her long fingers and her yellow rinse glinted like metal in the sunlight.

'Well,' he strolled over to her, 'how are your whales doing?'

And he watched the translucent fish rush to the surface and snap at the food.

'Be thankful we've got them here.' She had a voice like pond water. She got married only a few weeks ago. She must have hooked him with that voice of hers or maybe it was the effect of that yellow rinse when she's standing with the sun behind her.

The two of them made their way back through the concrete alley between the machines; a pity, if only she hadn't got married. . He went and stood in his place, taking the one big and three small cogs with his right hand. The axle was already fitted. Then he inserted the four screws, hung it up and took one big and three small cogs in his right hand and two small axles in his left. The loudspeaker on the opposite wall crackled for a moment and made an announcement.

'If only they'd stop that rubbish,' said Ladya, 'and put some proper music on.'

Marie switched off her screwdriver for a moment: 'I wouldn't mind being the one who put the records on, though.'

The voice fell silent; they were playing a polka as it happened to be on top of the pile.

Some dream, he thought to himself, sitting there in an office playing records. Jesus some dream. They're not allowed to play anything decent anyway; people would listen and stop working. 'A fat lot of fun that would be,' he said to Marie, but she was most likely lost in thought again; all she could ever think about was her bloke. That's where he had an advantage: he could leap on to his horse and ride off whenever he wanted to. If it wasn't for that damn music. . He used to like music and singing, but that loudspeaker with its constant. . He hated music now, any kind. Luckily he was able to ignore it. So get on, get on, the

familiar voice of the doctor shouted at him. What are you waiting for? That woman's at death's door and this is her only hope, and he slipped a small package into the saddle bag. Now he leaped into the saddle and galloped along the dusty path beside the banana plantation, the unrelenting and motionless sun blazing ahead of him, and then the trail came out on to a strange plain of cactuses: tall bulging stems with fat leaves which threw shadows here and there; tiny hummingbirds flew above them and huge butterflies sailed over the bright red flowers. He liked the butterflies, the way they soared, brightly coloured like neon signs. They helped him forget the extreme heat. He laid his head on the horse's neck and closed his eyes slightly so that all he could see now were swirling rainbow-coloured specks, they were the specks of the hummingbirds and the cactus flowers and huge butterflies and he was delighted to be flying through this parched landscape and able to see so many rainbow colours. Then he caught the sound of nearby drums. They were probably part of an incantation against the poison — and what else could they do since he was carrying the only remedy in his saddle bag?

She was lying on a white mattress in a low hut woven from sugar cane. Her skin was very dark and her eyes were already blind.

He took out the syringe. He was still surrounded by people and when he stuck the needle into the dusky arm he could see the liquid slowly disappear from the glass tube.

She'll be better by evening, he announced to the old man who had been standing at his side throughout. They emerged from the hut and the man asked him, How shall I repay you?

He replied, I am merely doing my duty. And in fact he really did not want anything, he was very happy to be able to

do what he had done, to ride across the dusty plain and help a woman; if you were able to give her to me, he thought to himself, but said nothing and the man couldn't understand why he refused money, that he was genuinely happy to be doing something he really liked.

'In fact I don't know if we'll be going,' said Ladya.

'Why?'

'It's a drag. . And then there's the meeting,' he added with annoyance. 'How are you supposed to feel like going anywhere after that?'

'That's a fact,' he said, almost relieved. He now picked up one big and three small cogs with his right hand and two small axles with his left, slid them on, let them click into place, tested them, then took four screws and inserted them into the holes.

Unless you gave me a butterfly, he suggested, a blue butterfly. But his horse was tired and out of breath by now — the butterfly flapped around like a piece of crêpe paper that had torn itself away from some decorations at a village fete; Jesus, it's nine already, forty more minutes to go before the main break: I'll have a pickled herring today and a glass of that black muck — our Coca-Cola. He picked up one big and three small cogs with his right hand and two small axles with his left, gazing all the while at the white wall opposite: it looked like a flour sack, maybe if he breathed out hard enough the bag would collapse and cover him in floury darkness; he closed his eyes slightly and spurred his horse.

He dismounted by an ordinary cliff at the side of the Vltava. Blanka was two paces behind him. They were both trudging along with rucksacks on their backs. Come on, I'll give you a hand, he told her as they started to climb a narrow path in the rocks. But she only snapped at him, Leave off!

There's no need to be so. . but he felt a pang of regret. Of course he ought to be happy that she had come with him and was now climbing with him up this path that led to a totally deserted forest, but he felt regret instead, because he suspected she was thinking of how to slip away from him, how to shut herself in her tent, keep quiet and act the innocent while he lost his temper because he loved her.

He was definitely quite fond of her and could tell her so if he wanted, except that he never managed to say things like that. . He let her move ahead of him and all he could see now were her tanned legs and the big rucksack and above it her almost-white hair.

Babe, you're fantastic, it occurred to him. He reached out and said, Come on, I'll give you a hand.

She didn't object, but nor she did utter another word. So they climbed to the top of the slope and the footpath wound through a sparse birch wood.

Listen, she said, why don't do you do something. . something. . she could not find the right word, but it seemed she wanted to say: something decent, something classy, a white-collar job, a. .

What's wrong? he snapped at her. Didn't you see those bikes on the way here?

So what? As if it was you who made them. You. . she laughed, all you know how to do is stick a couple of cogs into the gear box, apart from that you're totally ham-fisted and useless.

Just like everyone else, he said angrily But a fat lot you understand with your lacquered head!

She was going to make some comment but he cut her short; And you can pack in all that crap. The last thing I want to do is go on about it here.

But Bohouš, she said.

About my bloody gear boxes, he let fly. I don't need a girl who keeps harping on about things like that.

But Bohouš, she repeated.

It's the last thing I need, he roared at her. Arguing the toss with you about our gear boxes.

But Bohouš! Her voice now gave way and she started to wail like a siren.

'The scorcher is on its way,' Ladya said, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. 'I'd sooner jack it in and head straight for the water.'

'Yeah.'

'When we were at school,' Ladya said, 'there was a whole gang of us. We'd just skive off and be down at the water first thing in the morning.'

'True enough.'

'It's ages ago now — five years already, would you believe?' and as he passed him the box he gave him a sympathetic look as if to say, Pack it in and get the hell out of here, go and make for the water, or just head off somewhere, straight ahead, ever onwards; and he felt an odd sensation in his legs, they were already on their way, running, the tar was a bit sticky underfoot, very sticky; he gulped and blinked his burning eyes. He picked up one big and three small cogs with his right hand and two small axles with his left, slid them on, let them click into place, tested it, then took four screws and inserted them into the holes. His horse was completely tired out and lay exhausted at his feet, nine thirty-five, great, he said to himself, it'll soon be the main break, time will start to fly now, I'll have two Coca-Colas. With Ladya she'd definitely be… he was already looking forward to the afternoon, however it turned out. Just so

long as that meeting doesn't. . and he picked up one big and three small cogs with his right hand and two small axles with his left, gazing all the while at the white wall opposite.

2

Outside the hot, dazzling white light hit them. It always filled him with a yearning for distant countries. In the park in front of the factory he caught sight of Libuše still waiting for Ladya, the two whole hours they'd been stuck in that meeting. That was loyalty, all right; nobody hung around for him. They were bound to entreat him to go for a swim, but he was hardly going to play the third… so he headed off in the opposite direction.

'Bohouš. .'

'I haven't got the bike here,' he shouted.

'I'll give you a lift home then. Libuše won't mind waiting here a moment!'

'I can't today!' He wandered along the hot street, just his luck, not a single. . All the things you could do on a day like this, but what?

At home there was just the tom-cat asleep. Mum and Dad were on the afternoon shift. In the flat the heat hung motionless. He opened a window. 'Had your lunch, Matt?'

In the pantry he found some dumplings soaked in gravy. He stuffed one in his mouth and tossed a piece to the tom-cat. The cat didn't budge, in the heat. It was hot and there was a horrible bland emptiness, on a day like this; he went over to the cupboard and rummaged in the terrible mess until he found the SHIP'S LOG, but poindessly, really: what sense was there at this

moment and on a day like this, even if it was coming to its end? If only one wasn't so totally, so utterly. . What then? In fact there 'was only her, he swallowed, she was that day, or the end of it, his swelling hope. The telephone booth beneath his window loomed emptily.

He was scarcely going to beg her, she'll find some excuse anyway, but what else. Otherwise the whole day would just fizzle out if it were allowed to go dry without any moisture.

The moment he stepped into the booth he was drenched in sweat.

'Hello,' came the voice.

'It's me. What are you doing this evening?'

What else?' said the voice. 'Swotting as usual.'

'What?'

'Everything.'

He fell silent. It was impossible to breathe in the booth. He should have gone to the river.

'And what about you?' said the voice.

'Nothing.'

'Lucky you.'

He wiped his forehead. 'You won't spend the whole time at it, though.'

'I can't say.'

'You'll have done enough by this evening, won't you?'

'I can't say,' she repeated.

'I'll wait for you then. Near your place by the cinema. What time?'

'I don't know.'

'Seven then,' he decided. 'Will you come?'

'Maybe. .'

'Bye, then.'

'Ciao.'

He went back home. This time he opened the ship's log and wrote: 20th May: longitude 158°13′27″ W., latitude 30°5′16″ S., sea calm, a hot windless day. A bit boring as before. Matt still sleeping. Holding course for the Friendly Isles. Four sharks to port. I'm already looking forward to this evening.

Then he remembered: There's only a few days' supply of drinking water left, but we've not lost hope.

He realized he was thirsty. He put the ship's log away again. The beer in the pantry was like coffee. Then he took out the disassembled radio and gazed into the jumble of wires for a long time without moving. Nothing gave him pleasure lately: not even reading or repairing. He didn't even particularly enjoy going swimming — everything seemed the same and everything was over so quickly, he had nothing to look forward to. Except her, a little. He liked her, even though he wasn't sure where he stood, or maybe exactly because he didn't.

He abandoned the radio; there's time enough for that at the rate I'm going. He couldn't work out why he was so fed up lately. Well, actually he didn't think about it too much, he just felt it, like a weariness: in his legs, in his head, in his hands and in front of his eyes.

There were some people who were capable of putting up with anything: whether or not they won the lottery, or their side lost last Sunday. . if they arrived a minute late that morning… if they had a row with the foreman. He couldn't understand them, though they were probably better off than him. He strolled along the street — silent families going home, the smell of their dinner from the windows. He tried to think about Blanka, what he'd talk to her about. But he couldn't think of anything. Nothing at all. Nothing had happened today

or yesterday, apart from the fact he arrived four minutes late for work — but he could hardly talk to her about. .

He arrived five minutes early He stood at the corner and leaned against a red and yellow railing. Two houses away there was a single-storey suburban cinema. The red neon sign paled in the setting sun. There was no one around, it must be in the middle of the film. In a window opposite a woman was walking around in her slip, but she was no longer young. The big green clock on the corner — someone had broken the glass with a stone and knocked off the minute hand, but the hour hand showed between eleven and twelve. He felt the urge to knock the hour hand off too and looked round for a stone, but couldn't find one. . it's seven o'clock anyway. If she didn't come this time he'd send her to. . but it was only one minute past seven. In fact he began to miss her; if they were to start going out together for real, then in the summer they could all — Ladya, Libuše and the two of them — go off somewhere camping maybe. It would make a great fortnight. Ten past seven. He found the wait exhausting. When she comes, if she comes, he'd say something to her, but what then? He didn't fancy the cinema; if she weren't so stubborn it would be easy to go somewhere out of town; just a few streets away and you were in the scrub; there was somewhere there for lying down and everything else; he knew where it was — when they were still in eighth class a whole gang of them would go out and flash lamps — the guys would go mad — once a guy knocked out one of his teeth. Seven-fifteen. He spat. He walked past the broken clock and slouched along the footpath to the ugly blocks of flats.

Buzzers on a grubby board.

'Yes?' asked the rusty interphone.

'It's me. What's the problem?'

'Is that you?'

'Who else would it be?' he said. 'You promised me. .'

'"Maybe",' the perforated metal corrected him. 'Actually I said I wasn't sure. I told you about all the cramming I've got to do. You don't know how lucky you are.'

'Yeah,' he said, 'not half.'

'You could come upstairs for a moment,' said the metal, 'though I don't know about my parents.'

'Bye, then. I'm not waiting any longer tonight.'

'Ciao, then.'

'Or tomorrow,' he added.

'Ciao.'

'Or ever again,' he concluded. But the rusty metal had fallen silent.

It wouldn't be night for a good while yet; he was hardly going to go home to bed. He didn't fancy going to find the other one either, not today anyway. Sometimes he used to look her up, but not today. He hadn't given her a thought the entire day, he'd had no desire to, in fact; so why this evening?

I should have taken my bike and gone to the river with Ladya, he thought as he sloped off towards the tram stop, there's always some fun by the river, and girls, and failing that there's sun and sand, sun and sand, someone playing a guitar, coloured swimsuits. He reached the main street. Wax dummies smiled out of shop windows. He gawked at them for a moment before getting on a tram. Jesus, but seeing. . The tram car was empty except for some old bird and her dog; out that late and with a dog too, the old bird; if only she, if only, there's nothing wrong with her, but I don't… I ought to get off. The rails screeched wearily. He was falling into a dark sack. He should have gone

to the river with Ladya instead. Ladya's a. . those tricks of his, like yesterday when he told the foreman, when he told the foreman… he chuckled quietly. This summer we could take our rucksacks and head off somewhere together. If he wanted to take Libuše, though, I'd have to. .

He got off the tram. The light from the dirty café lit the street — the Morning Star. What creep dreamed up that name for it. He went inside. There were three guys drinking beer. No one behind the counter. He leaned against it and waited.

Eventually she came out. In extremely grubby overalls. Small and thin, her cheeks grey after a long day. Her lipstick was almost all rubbed off. She caught sight of him and smiled wearily. Two gold teeth shone in her mouth. 'Is that you Bohouš?'

'Who else?'

'Come to see me?'

He leaned on the counter. His gaze was fixed on her face but he said nothing and gave nothing away.

So she said, 'I'm really tired today.'

'Yeah, it's evening already.'

She looked at the clock. 'I close up in another twenty minutes.'

'I'll wait for you!'

'I don't know. . I'm awful. . It's really nice of you to come, but I'm completely fagged out.'

'You'll perk up outside.'

'I don't think so. Not today. Do you want something?'

'Let me have a beer.'

She poured him a beer and he stared at her breasts beneath the grubby overalls. She was older than him, but not much, maybe only five years; he'd never asked her, maybe not so

much — girls soon went to seed in this job. She wasn't especially plain, apart from those gold teeth and her nose, but she'd never been his idea of. .

'Fancy something to eat? There's not much left anyway.' The last open sandwiches were going dry under the glass. She put two of them on a plate for him.

'It's the heat that does it,' she said. She smoothed her hair slightly and looked at him.

He took the beer and the sandwiches over to a table. The last of the three drinkers finished his beer and they left; just the two of them remained.

'Bohouš,' she said, coming over to him, 'you really oughtn't wait for me. It's nice of you, but I'm dreadfully tired today.'

'It doesn't matter. I'll wait.'

'It's up to you. . Would you pass me those glasses?'

He stood up and brought her the glasses the three had left. She rinsed them under the tap and stood them alongside the others. 'I shouldn't think there'll be anyone else in now,' she said. 'It wouldn't be worth their while.' She poured herself a beer and sat down with him at the table. 'So what were you doing today?'

'You know,' he mumbled. 'I was supposed to be going for a swim but it didn't work out.'

'Someone diddled me again today,' she said, slowly. 'I don't see how it could have happened.'

She fixed a tired gaze on him and her arm lay wearily on the table top: a small hand, the veins showing through coarse skin; her nail varnish had cracked during the day. He covered her hand with his own. She didn't move a muscle but just kept staring into his face, or beyond it, somewhere behind him. Then she raised her glass and finished her beer. 'I don't see how it

could have happened,' she repeated. 'I suppose I must have miscounted when I was giving that tram bloke his change.'

'Which bloke?' he asked and took two ten-crown notes out of his wallet.

'Forget it,' she said. 'Just forget it.'

He left the money on the table. 'There was one guy today,' she began to tell him, 'with a sort of a limp. I see him in here occasionally. He got drunk and kept going on about being falsely convicted or something. It seems he went to jail,' she went on slowly, 'and got out last year, before Christmas. But what does he have to keep thinking about it for? There's no point thinking about it the whole time.' She took his glass and her own and stood them on the counter. Then she went to the door and pulled down the grill.

She let him out the back way.

'Well, then?' he asked.

"Fraid not.'

Her house stood at the end of a dark street. If only she weren't so tired. Just a little further. Go dancing, at least. If only she weren't so tired. 'Can you smell that?' he said. There was the scent of something but he couldn't tell what. She unlocked the door. 'You must have an early start tomorrow too. .'

'I know.'

He followed her down a long row of doors. She lived in a single room; water dripped quietly in the passage. 'I'll have to mend that for you,' he said.

'You've been promising that. . Ever since you first came. .'

She started making up the bed on the couch. The place was empty apart from a cupboard, a small table, a chair and the couch. And two pictures on the wall: some sort of cliff above a river and a birch wood. He sat down and waited.

'Why don't you have a wash in the meantime?' she asked.

'Okay' He went out into the passage. Hair grips, a bottle of egg shampoo, lipstick and a few half-squeezed tubes lay scattered on the shelf by the sink. He ran some water before taking off his shirt.

'There was a bloke I knew once. .' she called. 'You don't mind me talking about them?'

'No!' he said, over the sound of the water.

'There's no point, though.' He heard her slapping the eiderdown. 'I'm completely fagged out today' she called. 'Should I make some coffee?'

She opened the door slightly and he could see the kettle in her hand. 'Fill it for me.'

He had finished washing long ago, but he stayed there

splashing himself with the cold water.

'He used to drink an awful lot of coffee,' she remembered, 'that bloke. He'd drink four coffees of an evening. Big ones, and I used to have to make them with three spoonfuls of coffee. He'd always bring it with him. He was a doctor. They posted him to somewhere in the country where he was all on his own. And had to make night calls too. He used to before. . and he said he had got used to it. So he couldn't get to sleep,' she said. 'Some nights he didn't manage to fall asleep at all.'

He dried himself with a soft, fragrant towel. 'You told me before.'

'About that bloke?'

'About him driving to see that woman who was dying.'

'There you go,' she said, 'I'd completely forgotten.'

'What's he doing now?'

'Him? No idea. He hasn't shown up in ages. Some of them

disappear all of a sudden. They don't even try to get in touch… As if we hadn't been. . You won't, will you?'

'Of course I won't,' he muttered.

'Maybe that coffee did for him,' she said quickly, 'and that's why he's not been in touch.'

They were sitting opposite each other — he by now only in his boxer shorts — and drinking coffee. 'Come to bed,' he said. 'Seeing you're so tired.'

'All right.'

He knew she would now spend ages washing herself. He hated waiting for her to finish washing, the time he had to stay in the room alone. It wasn't an ugly room, just empty and alien. There was nothing out of the ordinary, not even a spot on the wall, not even an old radio, or an aquarium with a single blue fish.

'Why the silence?' she called.

'I don't feel like talking!' Now he too felt an oppressive weariness. He always did lying here under a strange eiderdown, when he knew he ought to say something: to say he loved her and why he had come, or about the way things were and were going to be. Or at least to think about her and look forward to her. But weariness would force him to close his eyes, and he would start to fall into the dark sack with coarse sides, always the same material; it enveloped him and didn't let in the tiniest ray of light, or thought or image, even. He lay there totally still until suddenly he noticed that the coarse-woven side of the bag, the dark impervious material, was moving, slowly, inch by inch, moving almost imperceptibly: an endless grey conveyor belt.

A few quiet footsteps, the click of the light switch and he felt her body at his side. 'My little boy,' she said, 'my pet. Did you fall asleep?'

He opened his eyes, and a bright reflection moved across the ceiling before her face got in the way: two big shining. .

'Now I'm glad you're here,' she whispered. 'I'm always glad when you're with me.'

She waited in case he said something too, but she knew he'd probably stay silent. He never said anything. Sometimes it made her sad. 'My daddy-long-legs,' she whispered, 'my horrible daddy-long-legs.' Then she touched his chin with her lips, then his neck, breathing quickly and loudly, then his cheeks. Then she moved her lips to his, put her arms around him. And this was the moment, the moment that always made him come back for more. He knew it, she knew it. The soft pressure of her body. He was falling. He could feel himself gently floating. The unbearably light, dizzy fall, now it was for real. . Completely and totally happy at this moment. Nothing could equal this moment. Nothing tempted him away from it, everything converged here in this single instant, even though it was so brief and then after there would just be an ordinary old night.

'My little boy,' she whispered afterwards. She waited but he only breathed wearily. 'Do you like it here with me?' she asked.

'Yeah,' he whispered. He tried to hold onto the moment but didn't know how, and felt that even now it was beginning to slip away from him and he was beginning to fall into the night. The woman next to him moved slightly, whispered something, got up and pattered out to the passage. Water splashed noisily into the sink. She returned with a grey washbasin and a towel over her naked shoulder. She put the basin on the chair. 'Don't you want to wash yourself?'

So he had to get up and wash himself while she lay behind him. 'I don't know if I feel like sleeping any more,' she whispered. 'What if I switched on the radio?'

Then they lay side by side and the radio cast a dark rhomboid against the wall.

'Aren't you hungry?' she asked.

'No.'

'You usually. .' she started. 'My little boy,' she whispered, 'do you love me a little?'

He said nothing. A horribly sweet tune issued from the radio. Just as well he was able to ignore it. The motionless rhomboid. The cold strangeness of this room, of this night, this music, these words, this loving; he half closed his eyes and tried to conjure up his horse, quietly clicking his tongue at it, but couldn't even hear a response, it was sleeping somewhere — maybe his horse was worn out by that long day, wearily staring into a night full of stars while his warm nostrils quivered. The world was falling into a dark sack, the same old material. He lay there motionless: if only something, something were to come — a white horse at the corner of the street, Morning Star, something. .

'Bohouš!' she shook him. 'Bohouš, it's time you were gone.'

He leapt up. The grey washbasin was still standing on the chair. The low, cold sun shone into the room. .

'There's bread in the cupboard. . And some kind of almond pieces,' she said sleepily.

'I haven't got time,' he said testily. But he opened the cupboard and quickly cut a slice of bread.

'Will you come again this evening?' she asked when he was dressed.

'Don't know. . Maybe I'll go somewhere with Ladya.'

'Do come,' she said. 'I know you will anyway.'

The trams were stiflingly full and his legs were weak from lack of sleep. He hadn't even managed to wash. .

The time clock, the unsmiling watchdog of your days. Six-ten, there'd be words again. He dashed past the watchman and across the grey yard full of swirling ash. Workshop number one, past the rumbling presses, Anča cutting tin as usual, one more door and he could already see them in that never-ending never-changing row. . one big and three small cogs in the right hand, two small axles in the left, slide them on, let them click into place, test them, then take four screws and screw them into the holes, hang it up.

The foreman's gaze was fixed on the clock: six-fifteen. Jesus it's only six-fifteen. He grabbed one big and three small cogs in his right hand, two small axles in the left. He fitted them. Then he took four screws and put them in the holes. He passed the first box on to Marie. She turned to him and smiled slightly. The foreman's getting fed up; there'll be a bit of peace at last. The conveyor belt moved quietly. Take it off, hang it up. Marie s screwdriver squeaked. He could hear the clip-clop of hooves. He cantered along a totally white road through an alley of cherry trees with damp leaves. Steam rose from the meadows.

(1963)