The Ultimate Intimacy

Chapter Seven

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The candles are burning on the Christmas Tree. Under the pine-tree, as each year, there stands a crib that Daniel started to carve when Eva was still small and he only completed a few years ago. When dinner is over Daniel fetches his guitar, Marek brings his violin, Magda plays the flute and they sing a carol:

The Son of God to us is born

To sinners all upon this morn

Welcome, Lord, Welcome!

By now Magda can't wait for the presents, of which there are more than usual beneath the tree, and she starts to raise the tempo so much that Daniel suggests she put down her flute.

Being country born and bred, Hana adores Christmas customs: so they pour molten lead and float little boats made out of walnut shells with candles inside. In the past the table would be laden down with cookies and fruit, but there would be few presents: there was little money left over to buy them. But even if they could have afforded more, Daniel took pains to ensure that the joy of the gifts did not overshadow the joy of the message: that by divine dispensation, the curse of sin had been abolished, along with punishment for it. But now he needed to do something to make up for distancing himself from his family, besides which they suddenly had money to spare.

'Daddy, I'd like to unwrap the presents now!'

'Hang on for a little while longer, Magda!'

Hana was in the middle of making cookies when, a few days earlier, he went to ask her what she would like for Christmas, and she replied that

she didn't need anything but they could give something to Máša.

What a suggestion!

'But she's abandoned,' his wife explained, 'she has nobody. Last week she called in to see me and wept. She's lost her husband and her children. Do you realize how awful that must be for her?'

'Nothing we can give her is going to cure her loneliness.'

'But she'll feel that we are fond of her and thinking about her.'

'Fine.'

'She goes around in such a threadbare coat.'

'If you think so, then you — we — can buy her a coat. But I want to buy you something too.'

'But I don't need anything. I've got you.'

To conceal his embarrassment, he picked up a tray of filled cookie-moulds and carried it over to the oven. On the way, he skidded on some spilt oil that had been badly wiped up and just managed to catch the edge of the cooker to prevent himself from falling, but all the metal moulds in the shape of stars, pine-cones and hearts tipped on to the floor with a crash.

Everything was falling to pieces, and even the things that still held together, only held together illusorily.

He didn't buy Máša a coat but took her some money. He noticed that she had a bruise under her eye. Her ex-husband had punched her when she came to collect the children for the weekend. At least that is something Daniel would never do. A reassuring thought that all around him there were people harming each other who had fallen even lower than he.

'Money won't help me, Reverend, I have lost the will to live,' she said.

'Whatever are you saying, Máša?'

'Every night I think of jumping off somewhere, from a rock or some bridge, and never waking up again.'

'Stop tormenting yourself over someone who did not deserve your love.'

And what about the children?'

'You have to get the children back. You've lodged an appeal, haven't you?'

I won't get them back. I know he won't give in. He has money and knows people, and he wants to destroy me! What have I got?'

'You have truth on your side.'

'No one gives a damn about that, Reverend. Money is the most important thing, not truth.' Máša spoke in a tearful whine, which aroused his aversion rather than his sympathy. As if she were blaming not only her ex-husband but him too.

'You see?' he said. 'You could have a use for the money. You mustn't give up. We will all be on your side and help you.' He left the money in an envelope on the little table in the hall and fled.

A time of joy and mirth

has now come to the Earth

for God eternal,

is born of a virgin.

There in Bethlehem town

upon the straw she laid him down. .

He lays aside the guitar. Magda can at last distribute the presents.

Daniel looks on in silence. He has been striving the whole evening, since morning, in fact, to revive within himself a festive spirit. But it is beyond him. Instead, he feels a growing sense of uncertainty and shame. He preached about the birth of the Saviour even though he has growing doubts whether the birth occurred in the manner described. And now he is sitting here pretending to be in the same loving relationship with them all as at any other Christmas.

In previous years his mother would still have been here with them at Christmas. The sudden feeling of loss grips his throat. He has lost his mother, as well as the purity of a life unfolding in truth. His mother departed and a woman arrived offering him love or passion or maybe passionate love. He received her and gave up truthfulness and honesty.

Magda revels in her new skates and Marek can hardly believe that they have bought him a real astronomical telescope. (Dad, it must have cost a packet!) Hana went to try on her new skirt. He fobbed Eva off with a CD-player. He should have given her his mother's old flat, of course, but he needed it for himself.

He had met Bára there the previous week. He had thought long and hard about what might give her pleasure. Their lives tended to impinge on each other outside the world of material things so he didn't know what she needed, had never looked in her wardrobe, and he had spent such a short time in her flat and in such a state of mind that he had

scarcely taken in the individual items. Then he remembered that she had once daydreamed about Barcelona and its warm, bright winters, and about Gaudi. He went to a travel agency and paid for two excursions to Catalonia, leaving the departure date open for the time being. It crossed his mind that it would be wonderful if he could accompany Bára on such a trip, if it were actually to take place, but then he shrank back from his own idea: he would offer the second place to Bara's older son, of course.

Magda hands her father her own gift: she has knitted him a stripy winter hat. (Do you like it, Dad? It's fantastic — I didn't know you were so handy.) From Hana a shirt and a set of gouges, from Eva a book about Plato and Augustine, and from Marek a photo album.

When they were still in the highlands they used to receive gifts from every member of the congregation. The older members brought them food, the younger ones drew them pictures or made little figures out of dough, or plasticine, or even conkers.

A gift may be an expression of love, respect or sympathy, or a ransom for insufficient love, respect or sympathy.

Hana reappears in her new skirt, he pours everyone a glass of wine — even Magda gets a few drops — and they all drink a toast: To love, as is appropriate on a day recalling the Saviour's birth.

When Bára opened the envelope with the tickets for her forthcoming trip, she looked puzzled, and then she said: 'You're out of your mind! Do you really suppose that Musil will let me go to Spain just like that?'

'Why wouldn't he?'

'On my own?'

'With Saša.'

'He can't stand my son.'

'Maybe he's open to persuasion.'

And how am I to explain to him that I want to travel with Saša and not with him?'

'He says he's ill, anyway.'

'No, he'd never let me go anywhere that was nice, with Saša and without him.'

Marek opens the window slightly and gazes up at the sky, which, as usual at this time of year, is starless. Eva says: 'What do you think people in prison are doing now?'

'And anyway I can't accept it from you,' Bára said. 'What possessed you to send Saša to the seaside when his own rather never sent him there? At least if you were going with me.' She thrust the envelope back at him, but he refused to take it. Then they made love and Bára suddenly burst into tears: 'Nobody was ever kind to me the way you are. Why are you always leaving me? Why do you leave me at the mercy of a guy who tortures me?'

Hana sits down next to him. 'I really like it when we're all together like this at home and we're all in a festive mood.' Quite exceptionally, she kisses him in front of the children.

This is his home: a good home. Why is he leaving it?

When he prays that evening, Daniel asks God for strength and help. He wants to step out of the circle in which he now moves. He wants to put an end to the deception and live in the truth. He has prayed for this on several occasions in the past, but today he feels a vague kind of hope that he'll really manage to step out of the circle without harming anyone in the process.

When one prays one becomes a believer. One expects neither reward nor profit, nor even an answer; simply a sign that one has been heard. A sign which, even if it came, one could never be entirely sure of.

It is gone midnight when they go to bed. Hana snuggles up to him as usual. Then she asks him if he still loves her and Daniel says yes. Exhausted by the Christmas celebration, Hana quickly falls asleep, while Daniel stares into the darkness and silently asks her for forgiveness and also for help: stay with me and don't let me fall. Then he can hear Bara's voice begging him: Don't forsake me! and he feels a heart pang. Anxiety and love and despair.

2

Diary excerpts

Marek is happy. He has his cloudless sky at last and he and Alois were gazing at the stars until midnight, until I drove them out of the attic. Marek enlightened me about galaxies. There are infra-red galaxies and

X-ray galaxies. Moreover, galaxies cluster. Our galaxy belongs to a group of over twenty such clusters and those clusters measure three million light years. The clusters then form nests, and these can contain several thousand galaxies, which span as much as fifteen million light years. Supergalaxies, however, contain millions of galaxies and apparently light takes half a billion years to get from one to the other. The universe is composed of supergalaxies, but between them stretches empty space measuring hundreds of millions of light years.

It's true that I hesitated before I bought Marek the telescope. Not because it was expensive, but because it was a virtual endorsement of the doubts and comments that he tries to provoke me with. Then I said to myself that I would buy it for that very reason. We all live in doubt about the beginning and the end, and when he realizes this he won't need to test the firmness of my faith any more.

When I was carrying the telescope out of the shop I remembered Dad taking me to the planetarium. It was after his return from prison, and he talked to me about the boundlessness of the universe and how time defied the imagination. I wasn't particularly impressed by the planetarium, though; everything there was artificial. But that evening the sky happened to be clear and I went out and spent a long time, possibly an hour, gazing up at the stars. First of all I tried to identify the main constellations at least, but then I gradually became dizzy as I imagined the distances and the enormous quantity of burning matter. The idea of infinity excited me but also unsettled me. In fact I started to flee from it as I did from the gloomy notion of death which equally defied the imagination. Faith was a good way of escaping it, and still is. Except that there is no way one can entirely evade a reality that impinges all the time. After all, God is just as unimaginable as infinity.

For the first time in years I am reading Augustine, whom I used to revere for his intuition when I was a student and also because he considered love to be the basis of Christ's teaching. Now I find that, like Plato, he lacks sufficient knowledge of the world and nature to substantiate his views. Thus he reached most of his conclusions by deduction on the basis of assumptions which, without any evidence, he proclaimed to be beyond doubt. His explanation for God's existence outside of time and space was that in time and space one could not

discover supreme bliss and perfection. It is possible to displace everything great and beautiful from time and space, but not oneself or one's imagination.

These days we don't even have to worry about such justifications of God. I noticed the following sign on a wall not far from Tyl Square.

Posthumous experiences — The A.D.E.

I felt like adding: God on display 3 p.m. — 5 p.m., Wednesdays and Fridays.

Hana no longer goes to the hospital and has started to take charge of all the necessary arrangements for setting up a centre in our manse. There is a great deal to see to. It crossed my mind to commission Bára to design the structural alterations to the house. I like the idea of our undertaking a joint project. But she refused, saying we shouldn't tempt fate.

Hana is happy. She wants to install a potter's wheel and build a ceramics kiln, and also fit out a tailoring workshop. The board of Diakonia promised me they would get someone to undertake the structural plan gratis or at a very low cost. We have also given thought to people in the neighbourhood that we might employ at the centre. I thought of Máša: she could care for handicapped children; the work could give her some satisfaction seeing that her husband has deprived her of her own children — for the time being at least. For her part, Hana suggested Marika. She sings beautifully and plays the guitar. I wasn't too sure whether Marika would be a suitable person to work with children. She struck me as being too much of a daydreamer. (Alois likes Marika, although 'likes' is probably an inadequate description of their relationship:) However I said we could give her a try. Talking about the Diakonia fills me with an almost unexpected sense of relief. It's a bit like a shipwrecked sailor watching the arrival of a ship that might rescue him.

What's far more important though — to continue with my banal simile — is whether the people on the ship catch sight of the shipwrecked sailor.

I see Bára very seldom now. Her husband doesn't feel fit and assigns her most of his office duties. And he demands that she devote her remaining time to him. She says he often speaks about life losing meaning for him. He also offers her a divorce or his own death, both of which would save her work, he maintains.

Whenever Bára and I meet, she seems to be in a hurry. At the same time she looks at me with love and I have the feeling that her every movement is a plea for me to help her. Help her in what way? To find meaning in our life here on earth. She came full of doubt and misgivings about Jesus's divinity. She came to me to dispel her misgivings. But I failed. Instead of leading her towards the love of Jesus, I started to embrace her. I started to talk to her about my own love, which even lacks the fullness and purity that can be achieved by imperfect human love.

Except it is more likely that Bára came because she was seeking human love, not on account of her doubts about God. That was just a pretext.

You prove your love by your deeds. By being helpful and self-sacrificing, by standing by your loved ones when they need you. Love can also be defined negatively: not harming not abandoning, not lying and not betraying.

But how can that be applied in the case of two women who both regard you as their own? What then remains but a desperate effort to fulfil at least a few promises and resolutions; you then pay for it with further betrayals, lies and deceptions. It occurred to me that if I took a decision, irrespective of what it was, I would find relief. I could continue with my work without feeling that I've lost the right to proclaim the Bible's message. But then I realized that I couldn't continue anyway, as I lack sufficient faith!

Regarding the trip to Spain, Bára says her husband told her she could go to hell as far as he was concerned, but that Saša didn't deserve anything of the sort and he therefore opposed it. So they won't go anywhere.

I found it odd that she should accept someone else's decision like that without demur.

And what if he did something to himself while I'm there?' she asked. Then, apropos of nothing, she said: 'OK, I'll start to learn Spanish. '

I'd like in some way to define my state of mind, or more accurately, the state of my feelings.

Formerly I lived more calmly. I was not particularly happy but I definitely wasn't unhappy. I experienced neither moments of ecstasy nor of hopelessness. I did lots of useful and beneficial things and even had time for my hobbies.

Now there are times when I seem incapable of doing anything at all, unable to complete anything. And then all of a sudden I fall into some kind of trance and I sit down at the piano and improvise tunes that seem to me worth noting down, but mostly I don't bother because it seems to me more important to create them than to preserve them. Likewise, the carvings I do are different: more complex and dynamic. These days I usually portray a couple: a woman and child— as if previously I tried to capture a state whereas now it is a relationship, the tension between two human beings, whether mutual longing, alienation or passing each other by.

If I were to try and generalize, I would say that love awakens within my soul an unusual power, but the circumstances of that love crush my soul. Often I feel an unbearable longing for the other woman but the moment she suggests to me that we might stay together a little longer or even go away somewhere for a day and a night, I become frightened that it might threaten my home even more. My heart is staggering, in the words of the prophet. But what is a home? Can it still be a place where we sleep but at the same time yearn for someone who is not allowed to cross its threshold? Then I thought to myself how many spouses lie alongside each other in their homes and think about another. Is it perverted? It isn't natural, that's for sure. Except that man is losing touch with nature and therefore also with natural behaviour; therein lies his exclusiveness. His exclusiveness can be seen in his recognition of God above him, in having eaten from the tree of knowledge of good and evil and being aware of his end here on earth, as well as in the way he destroys nature, exterminates other creatures, deceives his nearest and dearest, and kills his brothers. In addition he prays and is always ready to converse with someone who never replies.

Two days ago Martin and I were returning from a ministers' course where we talked about absolution, among other things. Some were of the

view that it is actually a duty specifically rooted in Scripture to rid the believer of his feelings of guilt. (Paul to the Galatians: 'Bear one another's burdens.') Others pointed out that the priesthood has usurped this right for themselves, thereby improperly lording it over others.

'In my opinion, 'Martin said to me, 'those are all artificial quarrels. If one wants to lord it over others, there are plenty of other opportunities to do so. But people will always look for somebody who will tell them that even though aspects of their lives have gone wrong, they still have the hope of leading a decent life. If you don't tell them that, then someone else will, but they won't say the most important thing: Go and sin no more!'

I realized that my life was also going wrong and I too needed to hear that I have the hope of leading a decent life. Martin would undoubtedly give me absolution, maybe he'd even understand me, but I haven't yet made up my mind to talk about it. There is one thing that I have to talk to him about, though: I feel I can no longer go on preaching and I want to ask him or maybe Marie to take over my congregation for a while.

We said goodbye in front of the metro station and then the following happened to me: I took the train to Hradčanské and in the subway I came upon a group of obviously drunken skinheads surrounding a dark-skinned lad. I'd say he wasn't a gypsy, more likely an Indian. They weren't beating him, only yelling and jostling him. The people leaving the metro walked past them, giving them a wide berth, and the police as usual were nowhere to be seen. I came right up to them and saw the fear in the eyes of the encircled youngster.

Although I too felt some fear I addressed them: 'Why don't you leave him alone, lads?' I couldn't think of anything cleverer to say at the time.

One of them turned to me. 'What's it to do with you, you old git? Want your face smashed too?' And he shoved me with such force that I staggered sideways.

So now the others turned to me too. They seemed to be hesitating over which of us would make the more suitable victim. That momentary ' hesitation was enough for the dark-skinned youngster to take to his heels and for me to mingle with the people leaving the metro station. Martins right; they're all artificial, the things we debate on those courses, and they have precious little to do with modern-day life.

Mention of the police and the subway brings to mind something else that I noticed yesterday. I was walking along our street when suddenly a police car overtook me and stopped at the corner. Four policemen got

out. I observed them from a distance. They drew their pistols and looked as if they were releasing the safety catches too. They then lifted a manhole cover and started to descend into the sewer. I looked on in amazement at this film sequence but there was no camera or producer to be seen. I'd have loved to know if they were going underground in pursuit of mafiosi or skinheads, or to shoot at sewer-rats or to visit a ceremony by some particularly extreme underground sect. I reached the open manhole and stood there listening for several moments, wondering whether I would hear pistol shots, a shout or music. But there was deadly silence. It occurred to me that those four men would never emerge again. 'So they and all that belonged to them went down alive into Sheol; and the earth closed over them, and they perished from the midst of the assembly. '

The remaining policeman sat in the car observing me with indifference.

Bara's Saša has his spring allergy and Bára decided she would take him to the seaside whether her husband liked it or not. She asked me if I would mind her taking the trip to Barcelona.

I expressed surprise at the question.

'But I'll be away from you for a week, ' she explained. 'You'll have sent me out into the world and left yourself behind here. '

I told her I often went a whole week without seeing her even when she didn't go away anywhere.

That's different. She asked me whether I wouldn't come after all. I replied — as she had recently — that we oughtn't to tempt fate. When I got home the thought occurred to me: Why shouldn't I go over and see her, if only for a day? I can afford it. It was a tempting thought although I knew I would never actually do it.

A dream: I was on my way to a final-year class in my secondary school, bringing with me from home a drawing board, a blanket and a pillow. Then I realized I had taken my school-leaving exams long ago and there was no reason for me to go to school at all, so I decided to go home again. I didn't have a coat or a bag, so I put my purse and my wallet in the

back pocket of my trousers, aware that it was not a wise thing to do. But what else could I do, seeing that my hands were full? I kept checking every few moments in case my belongings had been stolen. They were, of course. And by ill chance it was the wallet, which was worse than losing money. Luckily I caught sight of a boy running away from me; I ran and caught hold of him and started to search him. His pockets were full of wallets, including mine. Once I had retrieved my wallet I walked to the tram stop. The tram didn't arrive, but instead a green bus with strangely high wheels appeared. A ladder was lowered down from the door and I was going to climb up it when I realized I had lost my blanket and pillow. I didn't know what to do, whether to get on the bus or to bok for my lost things. I let the bus leave without me but I didn't go anywhere. I just stood there.

That is my (our) situation: we are each losing our home but lack the courage to go and meet the other. She because she's afraid of her husband, and I because I'm afraid of God and the thought that I would be deceiving those who trust me. And we are both afraid of destroying our children's homes. But where are our homes? Not in the bedclothes or the identity cards, certainly. Either we carry them around within ourselves, or they are lost for good.

3

Daniel travelled to Zlín for a two-day pastoral conference. He had never been a particularly sociable person, which might have been one of the reasons why he had chosen such a solitary profession. Admittedly it involved one speaking to people and even experiencing mystic unity with them at the Lord's Supper, but at the same time one was separated from them by the pulpit, the gown and the exclusiveness of one's vocation. However, until recently he had always looked forward to these meetings with his colleagues: the more isolated he felt in his day-to-day activity, the greater the comfort he derived from being among those who shared the same fate and had to cope with similar problems and ask themselves similar questions.

At that very moment, one of his younger colleagues was at the rostrum dealing with the question whether it was possible to accept that Jesus was born of an immaculate virgin, or whether those few verses

about Mary's virginity were merely a reflection of early biblical tradition. What lent credence to the opposite view was not only the fact that two of the gospel writers did not hesitate to prove Jesus's kingly origins by giving Josephs family tree (each of them different, moreover) but also that the other two did not even mention Mary's virginity, so they either didn't know about it or did not accept it.

Even though the gospel account of Mary's virginity had always raised doubts in Daniel's mind and he had tended to see in it the influence of ancient pagan cults rather than a report of an inexplicable divine act, Daniel was unable to give the speaker his full attention. He had become increasingly absent-minded recently and he found it impossible to concentrate on anything that was at all abstract. On the other hand, his thoughts repeatedly wandered back to the problems of his private life.

During the lunch break, the conference broke up into groups. Daniel went for a walk with Martin.

They spent a few moments talking about what they had just heard. It seemed to Martin that the only thing that remained unshaken or beyond doubt in the New Testament message was the ethical message of the Sermon on the Mount. The virgin birth, along with the expulsion of evil spirits, miracles with bread and the calming of the sea, even the miraculous resurrection of the body, were all simply the products of the mythologizing talents of the early Christians.

Daniel would normally argue with him, refuting his heretical ideas, not because he regarded them as unacceptably wayward, but because they were too much in tune with his own doubts. When he used to assert that it was not possible to take one part of Christ's message and consign the rest to the realm of mythological notions, it was himself he was trying to convince rather than his friend.

On this occasion he remained silent, however. What point was there in talking to his friend about theological issues when he remained silent about what was preying on his mind most of all? His very mode of life called into question even the Sermon on the Mount. He didn't hunger and thirst after righteousness, he didn't commit adultery solely in his heart, and he was guilty of falsehoods.

Perhaps he had overestimated his failings. The modern world takes failings into account; it frees people from the burden of the soul and sin.

What sort of category is it, the modern world? Is it an awareness

that everything is permitted so long as it isn't an obvious and demonstrable crime?

'On the other hand, by casting doubt on what our forebears believed,' Martin added, 'we cast doubt on the tradition as a whole. And when people get rid of tradition, it's like someone losing their memory.'

'Except that what constitutes tradition,' he added in the next breath, 'we ourselves determine according to our taste and convictions. Because tradition can include all superstitions, prejudices and customs, such as knocking on wood in order not to speak too soon, or guardian angels. Not to mention the death penalty, faith in astrological predictions or the Christmas carp. Eat raw cabbage on an empty stomach on Wednesdays in Lent and you won't go astray the whole year. Swallows' droppings from a church tower will cure the fever. Eating an odd number of young mice will cure a fever. .'

They turned into a field and the path continued uphill. The day was unusually mild for January, only the tops of the distant hills were covered in snow.

A horse and cart suddenly appeared on the low ridge which they were approaching. It stopped. The person driving it was not to be seen and the motionless horse looked like a statue at that distance.

'When I was still in the highlands,' Martin recalled, 'there was only one private farmer left in Herálec. He had a horse — it must have been over twenty years old, but it still outlived his master. That man, before he died, asked to be drawn to the cemetery by his horse, not taken in some car belonging to the undertaker. The trouble was it turned out there was no funeral vehicle to be found anywhere that a horse could be hitched up to. So in the end we covered a dray in black muslin, decorated it with flowers and loaded the coffin on to it.'

'What brought that to mind now?'

'Maybe it was because of that horse standing in front of us. Or perhaps because we happened to be talking about tradition. That fellow wanted to preserve a tradition.'

'Well, people like that are a dwindling band.'

They walked on in silence for a while and then Daniel made up his mind to ask the favour he had been planning to ask for a long time: he needed someone to stand in for him for a while at work.

And what would you be doing? Are you going off somewhere?'

'I ve been offered an exhibition of my carvings,' he explained. 'I'd like to rid myself of all duties for a while at least.'

'You could ask Marie, she might be only too happy to do it!' Then the thought struck him: 'Those carvings aren't the main reason, though, are they?'

'No,' Daniel conceded.

'Something personal?'

He hesitated a moment. Martin was his best friend, the only real friend he had, in fact. They had never had any reason to conceal anything that went on in their lives. But now he remained silent about something that had transformed him more than anything else in the past. He felt an almost compelling urge to confide in him.

When Bára first came into his life, the only thing he had been conscious of was deceiving his wife, but as time went by he had become increasingly aware that the deception had spread to everyone he associated with. What is left for someone who conceals the most important thing in his life? Just words, empty words, a smokescreen that he erects around his own deeds. Martin might conceivably understand his feelings, but he could not condone his behaviour, his deception. He would tell him what he knew already: Go and do not sin again! But he knew he did not have the strength to do it. No one would help him out of the trap he was in. Besides he felt ashamed in front of his friend, and the shame was stronger than the need to confide in him. 'What isn't personal?' he said.

'Sorry, I didn't mean to pry.'

'We're also preparing to build a diaconal centre in the manse,' he said as an excuse. 'It's Hana's idea, she's had enough of working at the hospital.'

When they got back, there was a message at reception for Daniel to call home. He became alarmed. Hana usually didn't phone. Anything could have happened: to her, to the children; she could even have found out about Bára. He ought to be prepared with some explanation if that was the case.

Even over the phone he could tell Hana was upset.

'Sorry I'm disturbing you.'

'There's no reason to be sorry.' If she was apologizing, then he wasn't the reason for the call. 'Has something happened?'

'Yes, it's Eva. I thought you ought to hear about it as soon as possible.'

'Has something happened to her?'

'No, nothing that you might think. Dan, I've had a long talk with her and she knows I'm calling you. She herself told me to call you.'

'All right. So what's happened then?'

'She's expecting a baby!'

'She can't be. . Who with?'

'Petr, of course.'

'No. .' Then he said, 'I'll come home as soon as I possibly can.'

'You don't really have to, if you still have things to do there. We just wanted you to know. And don't be cross with her. There'd be no point now.'

4

Bára

The plane lands at Barcelona airport shortly after midday. Bára is somewhat ill at ease because it is years since she has travelled on her own, whereas Saša is a pilot's son and acts as if it was the most normal thing in the world for him to move about an unknown airport. Admittedly, his eyes are red and he sneezes from time to time, but he manages to retrieve his own and Bara's luggage and to find the stop for the airport bus that is to take them to Catalan Square. From there, according to the map, it is only a short walk to the hotel booked for them by the travel agency.

The hotel is luxurious. A doorman in purple livery and a red top-hat stands in front of the glass-panelled doors. The front hall is all marble. They smile at Bára from the reception; all they want is her signature and then they issue her with a key. Saša rebuffs the porter who is making for their luggage and he takes his mother up in the lift to the sixth floor.

'Here we are, dear Bára,' he says to her when he has opened the door, 'I know I'm not the one you'd prefer to be here with.'

'Now, now, darling,' Bára says, stopping his mouth, 'I may have taken you away from your father, but I've never rejected you.'

'That's true,' her son admits. 'Shall we unpack?'

'No,' Bára decides. 'We've come to see Gaudi, haven't we, not to

hang up our clothes.' And she remembers how at home about a month earlier she first cautiously mentioned the possibility of their all going together to see Gaudi's buildings. Samuel snapped back that he hadn't the slightest desire to travel anywhere; as far as he was concerned, Gaudi's work was more a farewell to the old era than the starting-point of the new one. Then he made a scene about Bára wanting to run away from the jobs she had in hand and enticing her son to idleness, as if he wasn't indolent enough already and good for nothing. She pointed out that she also had the right to a few days' leave and it would do Saša good to get away before his allergy came on.

Samuel generously conceded that he couldn't stop her from going but he wasn't going to pay her son's fare (he always referred to Saša as 'your son').

She felt like saying that he wasn't going to pay her fare either, but simply commented that she earned enough money to afford to treat her son to a seaside holiday, particularly since it was what the doctors had recommended for him. Samuel did not agree, of course, and it sickened her to argue about money. But Samuel was outraged at the very fact that it had crossed her mind and launched into a monologue about a spoilt mother spoiling her son too. He concluded by offering her a divorce or his own death. He wouldn't be in her way any more and she wouldn't have to put up with sickening rows over money.

Bára said no more, but when she went to bed that evening she wept over the hopelessness of their marriage and her entire future.

She can feel the tears coming to her eyes once again, but they are not tears of despair. Instead, she feels like weeping because for the first time in many months, or years even, she feels free from the husband who has become her torment. For the first time in her life she is alone like this for a whole week with her son to whom she so often feared showing affection in front of his stepfather.

They leave the hotel. There is a clear blue sky and a tepid wind is blowing in from the sea. Gone is the suffocating blanket of cloud that hangs over Prague in February. Even Saša is able to breathe without difficulty. A short way from the hotel, as she discovers from the town plan, stands Gaudi's Casa Mila, nicknamed the stone quarry on account of its colour, asymmetry and massiveness.

Bára knows the building from photographs, of course, and knows almost everything that has been written about it, but now, standing in

front of it, she is overwhelmed by the unfettered genius while feeling somehow overcome by her own ordinariness and insignificance.

They are fortunate to find that a group of tourists, or rather interested professionals, is just making its way into the building and they manage to tag along behind and see the round courtyard and climb the staircase between the countless pillars. Everything here is unusual, from the lattice work to the windows, not to mention the enormous lamps, and when they climb right up to the roof, they find themselves in a bizarre realm of chimneys, each one of which could be a sculpture by Henry Moore or Miró. Between the chimneys she can see the sky and the towering mountains in the distance. As always when she finds herself somewhere high up, Bára gets an attack of dizziness, but on this occasion it is caused not by the height but by the beauty of the scene. She finds it stunning. She puts her arm around her sons shoulders and kisses him, before thrusting the camera into his hands and requesting him to take a photo of her beneath a chimney resembling a giant in armour.

When they leave the roof Saša praises it as 'really something' and Bára bursts into tears for the second time today. She weeps because she is happy and also because it never occurred to her husband, whom she has loyally served for fifteen years, that he might grant any of her wishes or do something to please her, which would earn him no more than her love and gratitude. It had taken that pastor for whom she was able to do nothing but show love and gratitude. But what is showing him love when she scarcely has any time left for him? What sort of nonsense is it that she spends her time with someone who torments her and doesn't have time for someone who is kind and considerate to her?

They leave Gaudi s building on their own, but Bara's impatient thirst is not yet slaked. She is anxious that what she doesn't manage to see today she never will. After all, she might not live to see tomorrow or some bad news might arrive from home and she'll be obliged to return immediately.

So they take a taxi, and since Saša prefers the countryside to the city, they drive to the Parque Giiell. They walk past the fairy-tale porters lodge and then go up the steps guarded by the terrifying Python, before hurrying through the avenue of palm trees and sitting down on a stone seat covered in crazy ornaments.

Bára asks her son whether he isn't bored and promises him she'll

take him to a disco tomorrow and also to a football or tennis match, or a bullfight, if anything of the kind is held at this time of year. Or they can go on an excursion somewhere, maybe to the mountains, that seem so close from here. Saša tells her he is totally happy here and then he remembers his stepfather who is sitting home swallowing tablets instead of sitting here and having a good time. But it's just as well, because if he were here, they wouldn't be having a good time.

We have to call him anyway, Bára realizes, and feels a cold blast of air from her distant home; in a few days' time she will return to her trap and Samuel will never forget that she opposed him and left without him, and actually took her son with her, even though he had expressly forbidden it. She knows that she has rebelled and will have to pay for it, though it is not yet clear to her in what manner.

They drive down to the sea and watch the cargo ships in the distance and the enormous cranes. Green buoys rock back and forth beyond the harbour. Bára makes out two seagulls sitting on one of them. Their positions are so perfectly symmetrical and they are so still that Bára is no longer sure whether they are real or carved. She gazes at them steadily while Saša inhales the sea air which is free of the swirling pollen that suffocates him at home. At least a quarter of an hour passes and the gulls are still motionless. Perfect symmetry, Bára realizes, and in her mind she confides it to Daniel. Like the perfect order that Samuel dreams of, it means the end of life and it's even the death of art since it precludes shifts or movement and rules out surprise. And yet art has always sought symmetry: in drawing, in verse, in music, in building, in ornament. It seeks paradise but falls prey to the urge for death. Wasn't that like religion? It seeks to confine life and love within an order, by means of regulations and proscriptions. It makes it a sin to break them and therefore banishes any freedom and movement from life. Happily, from time to time, some wayward soul is born, some Gaudi, who questions the prevailing order and symmetry, in order to rescue life.

Finally, in obedience to the same law of life, the gulls move and both fly off together and soar above the waves.

As Bára and her son make their way back, their route takes them through a market where exotic birds are being sold. Saša enthuses over the rich colours of the Amazonian parrots, as well as the toucan and the cockatoo's golden coronet. They could buy one of them and take

it home. His stepfather could get himself a coronet too, so everyone could see he's the chief. And Aleš would be sure to love a parrot.

'You're crazy,' Bára tells him. 'We'll bring home a parrot and it'll split on me when it overhears me telling someone on the phone that I love him.'

Before they go for their dinner, Bára calls Sam from the hotel. As soon as she picks up the receiver it emits a long and, to her ears, plaintive tone, but she finds precise instructions alongside the telephone and she manages to dial the Prague number.

Samuel answers, which means he's alive and has survived her rebellion. Bára informs him that they have arrived safely and that it is lovely there. Its a pity he didn't come, she tells him, the Gaudi is unforgettable and Saša feels better.

Samuel remains silent, so she asks him how he is, but he continues to say nothing. The telephone is dead, maybe they have been cut off or Samuel has hung up.

So Bára calls again, but this time nobody answers the phone at the other end. Samuel refuses to talk to a wife who has disobeyed him.

It is humiliating. Bára feels as if she has proffered her hand to someone who has refused to shake it and she is aware of her blind submissiveness. She called Samuel instead of calling Daniel and telling him she loves him. So she dials another number. The telephone rings for a long time and then at last a girl's voice answers at the other end. Bára asks Magda if her daddy is at home.

'He's leading a Bible study class,' and Magda wants to know if she is to give Daddy a message.

It is evening and they go out once more into the street. They find a restaurant offering Catalan food and wines at reasonable prices. The waiter chooses them a table by the window. It is a table for five but there are no places taken so far. In her newly learnt Spanish, Bára orders three kinds of fish for herself and rabbit in an olive sauce with rice for Saša. She orders herself some red wine and orange juice for Saša who refuses wine.

Saša tries to entertain his mother by reading out suggestions for excursions to her from the guidebook: gothic bridges and castles, a Roman fortress, poetically foreign-sounding names like Sant Pol de Mar, Castelló d'Empuries, Torroela de Montgrí, Vendrell — Casals' birthplace. And the Pyrenees are not far away either.

'Listen, darling,' Bára interrupts him, 'we're only here for six days

and we can't see everything, and I'm not going mountain-climbing — you know I've ruined my lungs with smoking.'

Saša leafs through the phrase book for a moment and then announces 'Puesyo me he quedado con algo de hambre. Pediré algo más.' Bára asks him if an ice-cream sundae would suffice and she realizes with emotion that this is the first time she has been with her son acting as a chaperone and companion, that for the first and maybe last time she is sharing something special with him alone. She would like to hug him, her little boy, and say: Forgive me, I've bungled so many things in my life, but she simply says: 'Have a giant sundae or whatever you fancy'

Before bringing the ice-cream and another glass of wine for Bára, the waiter grumbles that the place is very full this evening and asks politely if he may sit a customer at their table.

Bára agrees — they'll be leaving shortly anyway — so the waiter brings the customer over. It's a man, although he looks more like a black-haired demon, if one accepts that demons can be as handsome in their fallen state as the angels they once were. The man has a large devilish nose, long, dark Arabic hair, a high forehead like Bara's, eyes even darker than hers and broad kissable lips. He is dressed entirely in black apart from his snow-white shirt. He bows and excuses himself in Spanish, telling her his name, the only bit of which Bára manages to understand is the Christian name, which she takes to be Anselmo, although she can't be sure. So Bára introduces herself too and she admits that Saša is her son.

Saša eyes the fellow with distrust and obvious displeasure. He wants to be alone with his mother and so he tells her he needn't wait for the ice-cream. But Bára has already ordered it and she doesn't feel they need to rush off anywhere. It's nice here, after all.

On hearing this strange tongue, the demon Anselmo asks in English where they are from and Bára tells him, 'From Prague.'

'Oh, Praga, Praga,' the man says. He was in Prague five years ago and saw the paintings from Picasso's classical period in the gallery there. Does she like Picasso?

Bára says she has had little opportunity to see the originals of his pictures.

So she must not miss the opportunity to see a collection of paintings by the young Picasso, because without that it is impossible to understand his genius. A man who at the age of fourteen had mastered

technique to the extent of painting like Leonardo or Van Dyck could not help overthrowing the old forms and conventions and going on looking for newer and newer forms of expression.

Bára replies that they would be sure to visit the museum as they were here for another six days.

If she permitted he would be happy to act as her guide, the man offers. It would be a pleasure to guide a beautiful woman from Prague and her son.

Bára smiles at him and leaves his offer unanswered, while Saša scowls. He bolts his ice-cream, but the demon has already ordered Bára another glass of wine.

Don Anselmo slowly eats his scampi while talking softly in an alluring voice. He talks about Picasso and Dali, whom he loves and admires as a unique giant among artists and the most remarkable, albeit extreme, genius. He had spoken to him on several occasions, as he had once written a major study of him. He regrets that the lady from Prague does not have enough Spanish, but will gladly make her a gift of a copy. Art history is the demons field of study and Dali is his speciality. If Bára is staying longer he will gladly drive her to Figueras and show her the masters birthplace.

'Bára dear,' her son rebukes her, 'we ought to go.'

But Bára has no wish to. She is sipping heavy wine that has the scent of muscatel and Catalan sunshine, and watching the man opposite, no longer particularly aware of what he is saying, but being conscious only of the melody of his voice and the message of his gaze, which unlike his mouth professes admiration, requests an assignation, demands her embrace, and in fact slowly undresses her and fondles her breasts. And she realizes that she is free, totally free. No one is watching over her, she can do just what she likes; she can delight in the fact that she is attractive to a man she finds so alluring that merely looking at him gives her physical pleasure.

Then she listens to a story about how Dali kissed the teeth of a dying horse when he was small and then when he was five he hurled an even smaller boy from a bridge. She doesn't know whether it actually happened, or whether they are only empty words to fill the time that must elapse between first acquaintance and making love.

Saša once more presses her to leave with him, and she suggests that he should go on ahead to the hotel if he is tired, that she'll join him shortly. But this her son refuses.

She realizes that Saša has decided to keep an eye on her, but she does not feel it as a curb on her freedom; she is grateful to him, to her little boy, for not abandoning her and not leaving her to the mercy of the demon and her own urges.

'Just one more glass,' she tells her son and allows herself to be soothed once again by the sweetly insistent voice that now speaks of love, Dali's of course — for his Gala, who was matchless, loyal and inspirational.

Bara's speech is already becoming slurred and she is unable to find the English words, but she asks nevertheless whether it was the love that was matchless, loyal and inspirational, or Gala. Anselmo replies that it was both the love and that remarkable woman who, he now realizes, was Russian too.

The words 'Russian too' cut Bára to the quick. The demon had been in Prague which lay in Russia. But it's all right, at least she now has an excuse to accede to her son's wishes and walk out of this place. So she says that she must take her leave. She feels a touch of regret that she will never see this man again. The time between first acquaintance and love-making has lapsed and there is no returning, and it's all to the good, it has been a pleasantly exciting moment of freedom. She calls the waiter but the demon Anselmo will not hear of her paying. He thanks her for her pleasant company and a delightful evening which he hopes will not be the last. He will now drive Bára back to the hotel and tomorrow to the museum, and should she wish he will drive her and her son to Figueras or anywhere they fancy. He then presses his visiting card on Bára. Bára thanks him as warmly as she is able and allows him to kiss her hand. However, she refuses a lift back to the hotel, as she and her son want to walk a little more, but she gives Anselmo a hotel name, even though it is only the name of a hotel she happened to notice on the way to the Parque Giiell. She invents a room number and the poor demon carefully notes it down. In the doorway, Bára stops once more and turns to wave to the enthusiastic admirer of Dali.

'Don't be cross with me,' she says to Saša, when they emerge into the warm Barcelona night. 'Don't blame your old mother for flirting on her first evening in Gaudi's city.'

It is half-past one in the morning when they reach the hotel.

While Saša is having a wash, it crosses her mind that she could and should call Daniel. She'll tell him she met with Gaudi's ghost and a handsome, real live Catalan, who loves Dali and would no doubt have

loved her because he thinks she's a Russian like Gala. But Dan, she will say, I love you, only you, even here so far from you, and wherever I'll be, because you are the best person I have ever met. I've met so many people and there were many that I thought I loved, even though I didn't know what love meant until I met you. And she lifts the receiver which emits the long mournful tone. She forgets which is the number she is supposed to dial to get an outside line, and she has also forgotten the code for calling home. She'll have to ask Saša, he's bound to know, because he's young and only drinks orange juice last thing at night.

When Saša emerges from the bathroom, his mother is already asleep, holding in her hand the telephone receiver which emits a long, mournful tone.

5

It was night when Daniel reached home. Marek and Magda were already asleep and Hana was watching television. The surface of life seemed unruffled here. Hana hugged him. 'I'm glad you're back.'

'Where's Eva?'

'Upstairs in her room.'

'Have you talked about what she's going to do?'

'Naturally, but it'll be better if you talk to her yourself.'

He went upstairs and knocked on his daughter's bedroom door.

She was seated at her desk over an open book. Now she quickly pushed back her chair and got up. 'Hi, Dad. I didn't think you'd be back till tomorrow.'

'That was what I originally planned. But it didn't work out.'

'Are you cross with me?'

'I'm cross with myself, more than anything, for having brought him into the house.'

'But I love him.'

She was standing facing him and suddenly he had the feeling it was his first wife standing there. She used to speak to him in the same tone of voice: I love you. That was how old she was then. But hadn't he deserved her love? He had not been a blackguard. Not in those days, anyway.

'Are you sure, Eva?'

'About what?'

'That you're expecting his baby?'

'Yes.'

And that you love him?'

'I'm sure of that too.'

'Why?'

Silence.

There's no answer to that question. Whatever she said, it wouldn't explain anything anyway. If only he had that blackguard here right now!

'How did it happen?'

'The way things like this happen.'

'Thank you for your explanation. It isn't what I expected. It's not what I expected of you. How long is it now?'

'Three months almost. I was afraid to tell you. Besides which I was hoping it. . that it would go away.'

'Even if you loved him, what made you do that?'

'I was afraid he wouldn't love me any more if I didn't want to have anything to do with him.'

A fine sort of love if you have to fear for it like that.'

'When you love someone you want to be with them totally.'

'But he'll be found guilty and sent to prison. You won't be with him totally or even partly. You won't be together at all!'

'Maybe they won't find him guilty.'

'You know full well they will.'

'Maybe something could be done. .'

'Eva

'Yes, Daddy?'

'I thought and I believed that you'd finish at the Conservatoire. That you would play, and play really well, seeing that your mum didn't manage to.'

'I know, Daddy.'

'What do you want to do?'

About study?'

About study and life.'

'I don't intend to run away from my studies. They'll let me interrupt the course. For the birth.'

And what about Petr?'

'I'll wait for him,' she said, exactly as he expected. 'If Petr wants to, we'll get married. We can do that there, can't we?'

'If he wants to! I would have thought it was what you wanted that counts! You don't have to marry him. You don't have to marry him just because you're expecting his baby.'

'I want to marry him because I love him.'

'You can stay here with us,' he said, ignoring her answer, 'with the child too. You don't have to marry someone you know precious little about. Precious little good, at any rate.'

'He is good. He's just unfortunate, that's all.'

'Eva, you know very well how hard I try. I almost feel duty bound to believe that everyone is good and everyone can be reformed. But that man is so unfortunate, since you choose that expression, that he will bring misfortune to everyone around him.'

'No, he just needs to know that someone loves him.'

'But you loved him and look what happened.'

'He needed to earn some money.'

'He could have worked.'

'But he did.'

'For how long?'

'He had a debt to pay and apart from that — he needed money to get hold of…'

'What?'

'You know, Dad. Speed.'

'No, I didn't know. You knew but you didn't tell me. And in spite of that you wanted to have his baby and marry him?'

'I didn't want to have a baby. It just happened.'

'You must have been doing something that made it likely.'

'But I'm not trying to excuse myself.'

'Don't you realize the baby could be damaged?'

'It won't be, Dad. I don't take anything any more. Not since the time I told you.'

'But he was taking it. You say so yourself. And have you any idea at all what life with a drug addict would be like?'

'No,' she said stubbornly. 'I've no idea what sort of life to expect. No one knows what to expect. Nor what is good or bad for them.'

'This won't be good anyway.'

And do you think someone else would be better? People do far worse things than injecting themselves now and then.'

'Such as?'

'Stealing, lying, being cruel to each other.'

'Not everyone is like that.'

'Daddy, you know so very little about life.'

'Pètr told me the same.'

'Not long ago a boy told me that they should exterminate everyone who is defective. And also old people who are unable to work any longer.'

'Who was telling you that?'

'It was at a disco.'

'That's just talk.'

'It isn't.'

'There's no point in our talking about people at discos. I'd prefer to talk about you and Petr.'

'Well, he isn't wicked and he loves me.'

'Eva, now you're not talking sensibly. You're just being obstinate.'

'Why do you think he was having shots? It was because he couldn't stand all those things.'

'That's simply an excuse.'

'It's not. I found out for myself. When you give yourself a shot or just smoke marijuana, the world looks better. And you don't even feel like coming back.'

'Babies are born into the real world.'

'I know, Dad. I know I've been a disappointment to you.'

'That's not the point. It's not me that matters, but you and the baby that will be born. How will it live?'

'I'll take care of it!'

'How do you think you'll take care of it, when you can't even take care of yourself? Seeing that you think the world is such a horrible place.'

'It's not that I think it — it is. But he'll help me!'

'Who? Petr?'

Silence.

'So God will, then,' she said in the end.

'Let's hope so.' Then he said, 'We'll help you too, but no one will be able to help you if you don't know what to do about yourself.'

She turned her back on him and he could see her shoulders start to quiver.

He would like to have cried too, but he had forgotten how to, long ago.

'Don't condemn me, Daddy,' she said in the midst of her tears. 'I'll cope, you'll see.'

He had no right to condemn her. She would have more right to condemn him if she knew everything about him.

6

Samuel

Ever since Bára returned from Spain with her son, Samuel has refused to speak to her about anything but those things strictly connected with the running of the household. Instructions related to the office he gives her in writing. On the occasions when Bára tries to tell him something, Samuel either hears her out in silence or turns and walks away while she is still speaking. Bára gives him a hurt look and begs him to make it up with her, because she loves him, because he is her home and because it is impossible to live together all the time in silence. When he still remains silent, her eyes fill with tears and she goes off to find the children or to her own room and locks herself in. He can't deny that she makes efforts to discharge all her obligations and tries not to do anything that might arouse his anger further. So perhaps she really is suffering, but what is her suffering compared to his?

He has to live with a woman who constantly flouts order of every kind. She thereby destroys not only him but also the order on which life is built. For years he has tried to explain it to her but to no effect, or rather with the opposite effect. Bára is more recalcitrant than ever: right in the middle of March when the work load is greatest, she takes herself off with her son, who is only just managing to scrape through school. They go off on an excursion, but not to the Giant Mountains, for instance, but right to the other end of Europe instead. Why? Bára used Sasa's allergy as an excuse, but in reality her intention was quite simply to let him know how much she disdained everything that mattered to him, as well as all his wishes. She wanted to demonstrate to him that it was her sacred right to do just what she felt like. And obviously she didn't give the slightest thought to the fact that her bit of fun cost a lot of money that should have been invested in developing

the practice. Then she pretends to be surprised that he has lost all interest in work at the office. What reason could there be to continue with work which his wife so obviously holds in contempt, to build up something that she will destroy with a mere wave of the hand the moment he leaves the world?

He barely goes in twice a week to check on the work and assign jobs, but he cannot summon up the least desire to design anything himself, let alone come up with ideas or create anything. One of his reasons for stopping work is to demonstrate to Bára how deeply she has wounded him in the very essence of his personality, and the suffering she is causing him.

And he is suffering terribly. The days loom emptily ahead of him, and he just gazes at them impassively, wondering to himself which of them will be his last. In desperation he wonders how he might still change his life. What if he were to return to his second wife? It is years since he last spoke to her, but she has not found another partner as far as he knows. Maybe she'd take him back. He'd be better off with her; at least she wouldn't try to destroy him. But if he were to do that he would deprive his only son of his father, as he had already done to his two daughters. Besides, everyone he possibly still cared about would consider his return to the old woman that he left fifteen years ago to be an acknowledgement of total failure. No one would ever believe he had done it of his own accord, that he had left a woman whom everyone regarded as beautiful, interesting and attractive, who treated every man apart from her own husband considerately or even seductively, simply because life with her was no longer bearable. He could, of course, find a new wife entirely, one who was young and maybe interesting but definitely less extreme; or at least a mistress. But he didn't have the stomach to go behind his own wife's back, besides which he didn't feel he had the strength any longer to start a new life for the fourth time.

For a while he toyed with the idea of buying a dog, but in the end he realized that a dog was more likely to disturb him. It would require care, time and attention, and until it had learnt to understand the order demanded of it, it would actually worsen the muddle sown by Bára and her son — both her sons.

In her monologues Bára asks him, begs him not to upset himself, but to see a doctor, a psychologist or a psychiatrist who would prescribe for him an anti-depressant or send him for psychotherapy, or at

least advise him how to overcome his depression. So she says, but in fact she's hatching a plan to get rid of him from the house, have him locked up among lunatics, have him declared insane and then take away his son, his property and eventually his life.

His life is drawing to a close anyway. If Bára doesn't manage to take it from him, or if he doesn't take it himself, how many years might he have left? A life devoid of hope, meaning and peace of mind can't have much staying power. Depression destroys the heart and encourages malignant tumours.

For some time now he has found the thought of death attractive, though at the same time he is terrified by the void that yawns behind it. For years he has tended to give greater thought to his body. There was a time long ago when he would take plenty of exercise, but just recently he hasn't done more than just keep it ticking over. Now it occurs to him that he should pay more attention to his soul. It is no accident, after all, that he has turned out this way. Could one state with certainty that someone whose plans had been used for the construction of at least a hundred buildings in this country would one day simply disappear into the void, that his consciousness would die and his spirit simply vanish? That the only things that would remain for some time would be those very buildings. The master of ceremonies or whatever devil would preside at his funeral would be right in declaring: And he will live on in his work — thereby elegantly implying that nothing else of him would survive.

For the first time in his life, he starts to feel disgusted with his parents for having failed ever to speak to him about the soul and for leaving the world themselves with bitter resignation; disgusted with himself in his younger years when he didn't find the time to worry about anything else but work, materials and numbers, when his head was soaking up countless figures, definitions, building plans, the characteristics of dozens of architectural schools, charts, ground plans, elevations, but not a single thing about the meaning of his own existence, not a single thought about who he actually was, or how it was that he of all people had come to be washed up in this cosmic sea of possibilities.

It is interesting that even Bára has been to church from time to time over this past year. When she first ventured there, he suspected that it was simply a cover for some other tricks, but when he cautiously asked her how it had been at church, she recounted to him almost the entire

sermon with such fervour that he had joked at the time about her joining a convent in her old age. She had replied that after her marriages and her experiences with men in general it would come as a relief, but that she had been at a Protestant service and Protestants don't have convents.

Maybe she too was seeking a way out of emptiness. Maybe everything we do is only a search for a path that will lead us from emptiness and allow us to forget the nothingness we came from and to which we must return.

Had he not found it humiliating to show interest in something that interested her, he would have asked Bára then to take him with her to church some time.

While Bára and her son were away in Spain against his wishes, Samuel went to a church in the Old Town for the first time in many years, but he did not feel at ease in the midst of all that marble, all that baroque ostentation and the crowds of tourists. The preaching did not catch his imagination and the Mass seemed to him like a long-drawn-out production of a play that had long since ceased to mean anything to anybody.

And then, for some unknown reason, he remembered an experience he once had in Amsterdam when he had found his way unerringly to a hidden market, even though he had never heard of it before, at least not in this life. And then there was that odd feeling when he first set eyes on Bára. She seemed familiar to him, as if he had met her a long time ago. What if, in both cases, it was the projection of some experience from a life long past? What had he been? Why was he born on the first day of September, the very same day as one of the most famous baroque architects? He recalled how, during the trip to Brno, that young colleague of his had referred to some Indian sect that believes in reincarnation. Apparently death takes one of your bodies, but God or fate offers you a new one. The sect has members over here too, according to Vondra.

Why shouldn't he visit them, seeing that Bára can swan off around the world with her son?

He found the name of a sect that ran a vegetarian restaurant in the directory, and he also discovered where to go if he wanted to find out more.

On the Sunday before Bara's return, he set off to the far side of town where, amidst factory buildings and grey blocks of flats, there huddled

several small villas, one of which apparently housed the temple.

He hesitated for a moment outside the front entrance but then a young woman appeared wrapped in a pink sari and asked him if he was coming to visit them before inviting him in straight away.

He had to take off his shoes and then mount several steps to a prayer room of modest dimensions, at the far end of which stood a small altar with rather tacky and cheap-looking statues of some deity with several pairs of arms, as well as a whole lot of even more tasteless artificial flowers. The room was full of people, most of them young, who were sitting on the floor or on small cushions with their legs crossed beneath them. Most of the men had shaven heads and were dressed in white or pink flowing robes.

By one of the walls, hung with cheap garish prints, a priest or a guru or whatever he was sat enthroned behind a microphone, playing an exotic keyboard instrument and intoning a monotonous chant.

Samuel sat down on a small cushion at the very back of the room, and it took several moments for him to realize that this section was apparently reserved for women, but he didn't dare stand up and move forward for fear of disturbing the ceremony.

The priest/guru was still singing the selfsame melody and words, invoking Krishna over and over again, and the people in the room joined in his chant, some of them clapping their hands in rhythm, others beating on small drums or jingling cymbals.

The melody had an insidious effect and he had the feeling that some of the women around him were falling into a trance.

He would have happily surrendered to the melody and that invocation of an unknown force but his mind was not relaxed enough, and as the chanting of the monotonous melody continued he felt himself becoming increasingly alienated from the ceremony and this gathering, and his thoughts started to wander: from the arguably successful buildings of his early days to his unsuccessful marriages, Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna, Krishna, Hare, Hare, Hare Rama, Hare Rama, Rama, Rama, Hare, Hare, to the daughters whom he had abandoned, who called him Daddy but didn't love him; to the people he had helped by finding them jobs or passing on to them his knowledge free of charge — the only thing he had asked in return was a little professional integrity, without which buildings collapse and walls cave in, but even that had not gained him friends; there was no one on earth, not one single person, that he could say loved him. One travels through life, up hill

and down dale, and with the passing of the years one becomes more and more aware of the futility of all effort, self-deception and loving words.

Samuel thinks about his wife, the last one, who feigns love even though she feels nothing towards him any more, except hatred maybe, or fear of his anger. And suddenly it emerges, goodness knows from what depths: a name — Mary Ann. In his mind he calls his wife, Mary Ann, and it occurs to him that he has just found her real name. Admit that you hate me, that you want to destroy me!

At that moment, one of the shaven-headed youths steps up to the altar and draws the curtain; the guru finishes his chanting and starts his address with the assuring words that people are good and innocent, but they are misled, they are impatient, the dharma is in decline, the present age is Kali-yuga and gives rise to conflict, intolerance, rebellion and a longing for material happiness. People want to consume everything immediately and in this respect they resemble animals, and like them they easily fall into the trap set for them by Maya, the ruler of the material world. She leads people to neglect the Lord Krishna. It is necessary to raise the self above the body while focusing on the supreme personality, who is Krishna. He does not require us to give up everything, but simply wishes us to do everything we do with our minds on him. We can't help eating, sleeping or conceiving children: after all, we are a combination of body and spirit. But it is necessary for us to satisfy our needs like people, not animals. One has to be gosvami, in other words, someone in perfect control of one's senses and mind.

When the guru finishes they start to distribute metal plates of food smelling of exotic spices. Samuel is also served.

They all now eat their food in silence and what seems to him humility, and it strikes him that the place is run according to an order which they all observe. He doesn't yet understand its rules or its source, but is aware of its presence and imagines that if Mary Ann, his latest wife, were to find herself here she would flee the place like an evil spirit exorcized by bell, book and candle.

When he has finished eating, one of the young men comes and sits with him and starts to talk to him: he welcomes him and wishes to tell him something about Krishna, who is the Supreme Personality of Godhead, and about atma or the soul, the spark of life in the body, which goes on migrating from one body to the next until it achieves such a state of perfection that it may escape from the cycle of life and

death. Then it fuses with the cosmic soul and thereby attains its pure, true identity. If people live badly, serving only things and harming other people, their souls migrate into worse bodies, and can even enter the body of a dog, a cat or an ape.

Samuel nods, even though it all sounds alien to him, being so very different from anything he has lived by so far. He makes an effort to listen attentively and when at last the young man invites him to come again some time, he thanks him for the invitation.

And indeed, three weeks later, by which time Bára and her son are back and he is treating her with silence, he sets out once again for the same assembly and listens once more to the same chanted invocation of the god about whom he knows nothing (but what can one know about God?), listens to the homily which confirms the order which he still knows nothing about either, hears that he, like every man, is fundamentally good, just corrupted, but there is hope for him to overcome that corruption and strengthen his true self. He eats the fragrant vegetarian food and on his way home it comes to him in a flash that Mary Ann was a mass murderer who poisoned several men and eventually her own children too. In fact, she got rid of her last husband when she was the same age as Bára is now. She was executed over a hundred years ago.

Is it possible that he had been one of her victims in some earlier existence and had only now recalled it? Is it possible for the souls of two people to meet again in this world and link their fates again by some tragic error? It seems unlikely to him; after all, nothing of their life together has ever come into his mind, only the features and that name, so it could be that at that time he had simply caught sight of the likeness, the name and a brief account of the case.

When he gets home, Bára is ironing in the lounge while listening to some piano concerto on the radio. Mary Ann glances at Samuel and even smiles at him, asking how it was and whether he wants dinner, but he declines, saying he has already eaten.

Bára asks how the food was and he tells her it was good.

He doesn't go off to his room as has been his wont in recent days, but instead sits down in one of the armchairs and says nothing. He reflects on the possibility of a soul being reincarnated in another body. It sounds odd but the fact is there must be about a billion people who believe it. And how else could one explain all the déjà vus he has read about, and also experienced himself?

But even if such things could happen, is it possible that the soul of a murderess could return to a human body and continue her poisoning? How many bodies would she have had to pass through since the time she was hanged?

It all seems strange and improbable to him, but how then is he to explain the fact that as every day passes, the sense of imperilment grows within him and he is constantly aware of Bara's perfidy, in her every word and every movement?

A thought suddenly occurs to him and he says: 'Wouldn't you like some tea, Mary?'

Bára stiffens, then turns round and says, 'Are you asking me?'

Samuel stares at her fixedly and says nothing. He has the feeling that Bára has blushed.

Mary Ann returns to her ironing. Samuel gets up and turns the music down.

Bára asks: 'Why did you call me Mary?'

'Why did you react?'

'There's no one else here!'

Samuel says nothing.

'Sam, you're off your head!' Bára says in shock.

'I'd like some tea,' Samuel requests.

Bára switches off the iron and goes to the kitchen. She doesn't close the door behind her so she disappears from his view for a moment before reappearing once more. He can see her run water into the ketde and then push the switch down. The water boils in the invisible kettle. Bára takes a cup and puts a teabag into it before going to fetch the kettle and something else. Once more he can see her: she pours water into the cup and then, from a little packet, she adds some sort of powder, and finally stirs it all with a spoon. The poisoned tea is ready. He has unmasked Bara's true identity and in so doing brought nearer what was intended to happen anyway.

She wordlessly hands him the tea and switches the iron back on.

'Don't you want any?' he asks.

'No thanks. I had some tea a moment ago.'

'You can have some of mine!'

'No, thank you.'

He rises, picks up the cup and hands it to her. 'Take a drink!'

'Don't force me. I don't want any!'

'What did you add to this tea?'

'What do you mean?'

'You added something from a sachet to it.'

'Do you mean the sugar?'

'I mean, what was in the sachet.'

'Sugar.'

'That's if it was sugar.'

'And what else was there supposed to be in it?' Bára goes into the kitchen and returns with the sachet: Sugar granulated. Weight 5 gm. Hygienically wrapped.

The sachet has had its corner ripped off and is empty. It is impossible to tell when it was torn and its contents replaced.

'That's if there was still sugar in it.'

'No, it was full of poison, you madman!'

'Drink it then!'

'I won't. And leave me alone. You really are insane.'

He feels the impotent rage rising up inside him. He should grab her and force the liquid down her throat.

'So take a drink if it's only sugar.'

'Leave me alone.' She picks the iron up again and runs it over his shirt.

Samuel stands up and goes to his bedroom. He opens the bottom drawer of his desk, where his pistol is hidden beneath a pile of old plans. He takes it out and loads it. He returns to the lounge. 'Look at me, Mary!' he orders Bára and takes aim at her.

Are you crazy?'

'Take that cup and drink it.'

'Is it loaded?'

Samuel says nothing.

'You really have gone off your head!'

'Drink that tea, you bitch!'

'No,' she says, 'I won't. I don't feel like it.'

Are you afraid of what you prepared for me?'

'I don't fancy any tea, that's all! And you can go ahead and shoot me!' Bára yells hysterically. 'Go on, shoot the mother of your own son. I won't have to put up with you any more, at least. Or with anything else. What sort of life is this, anyway?' Bára takes the cup and comes up so close to Samuel that he prefers to move away. 'I'd sooner chuck it in your ugly face,' Bára yells, 'but I'll leave it for you. You can take it down to the police station and let them analyse it!' and she turns and

runs out of the room. Samuel hears her lock her bedroom door. That is followed by several hysterical sobs and silence.

The very thought. Taking the cup of tea to the police. Hed done all sorts of things in his life, but he had never denounced anyone.

Samuel lays the pistol down next to the cup of tea and hesitates for a moment. But if its to happen, then let it happen. He picks up the tea cup and drains it to the bottom.

7

The trial was held in a small court room. There were only three benches for visitors but two remained empty.

The State Prosecutor's Office was represented by a woman, perhaps slightly younger than Hana, and there was nothing strict about her rather maternal appearance. If he were to meet her without her gown Daniel would never guess her profession. But then, if anyone were to meet him without his gown, they would hardly guess he was a pastor either. The chairman of the court was an older man. Petr's lawyer, Dr Kacíř, maintained that he had been a judge under the Communists, but had apparently behaved decently.

The prosecuting counsel accused Petr of obtaining and selling the drug pervitin, chiefly to minors. He had admitted the offence but refused to say who had supplied him with the drug, saying that he used to meet the person regularly on Republic Square in Prague but did not know their identity. Likewise, he didn't know the people he sold the drug to. The accused maintained that he sold only very small quantities of the drug, but no credit could be given to this assertion, as he had already had a previous conviction for the same offence. The prosecutor then went on to talk less about Petr than about the danger of drugs, how young people's lives were damaged or even destroyed; according to certain estimates, as many as 300,000 young people had tried drugs and about 13 per cent of young people were addicts. In such circumstances the behaviour of the accused represented a particular danger to society and the motives for his actions were entirely despicable. The profit motive had dominated his behaviour to such an extent that he had not been deterred from his activity either by the previous punishment or the care of those who had acted as his social

guarantors. Although the accused denied it, it was obvious that he acted as part of an organized gang involved in the manufacture and sale of drugs. Society and particularly minors had to be protected from these people. The prosecutor asked for a sentence at the upper end of the scale.

Daniel felt as though he was in the dock. His throat was dry and his forehead burned as if he had a fever. Eva sat next to him motionless, her gaze fixed on the prosecuting counsel. What was she going through as she heard such negative judgements about the father of her baby?

Daniel was unable to come to terms with the fact that his daughter was expecting a baby out of wedlock, let alone the fact that the father was a criminal who had betrayed her trust and his. He had tried to persuade her that it was better to live as a single parent than to bind herself to someone who repeatedly demonstrated that he was incapable of leading a decent life. But Eva stuck to her guns. Petr wasn't bad, he had just had a hard childhood and suffered from insufficient love. 'Haven't you always preached the importance of love for people's lives, Daddy?'

'Yes, real love.'

'What is real love? How do you recognize it?' And she answered herself: 'Real love never abandons others even when they fall short.'

At least he had persuaded Dr Wagner to undertake Petr s defence. He based his case on the fact that Petr was not a normal dealer who sells for personal gain but was a dreamer who was incapable of distinguishing between reality and his own fantasy. He assured Daniel that he would manage to get Petr a 'first paragraph, in other words, a fairly short sentence, although probation would be out of the question because of the previous offence.

Petr's examination began. Petr admitted that he felt guilty about selling drugs on several occasions to random customers, but he had never sold them to 'beginners'.

How could he tell, maintaining as he did that he did not know the people who bought from him?

'You can just tell, can't you?'

'So you have plenty of experience in this field!'

'Even if I have, I didn't get it through dealing.'

'So how did you get it?'

'On my own or from friends.'

'Have you been using drugs for a long time?'

Dr Wagner objected that drugs use wasn't part of the charge.

The judge considered that it helped none the less to give a fuller picture of the defendants character.

Petr declared that he could not remember. He just knew that when he was in a bad way, drugs helped him to survive.

'Why were you in a bad way?'

'I didn't have a dad and my stepfather hated my guts. He used to beat me and Mum. So I ran away and lived as best I could.'

'In a gang?'

'I had pals who would let me sleep in their pads.'

'What did you live on?'

Petr could not recall. Then he said: 'But I never stole.'

'Or you didn't happen to get caught,' the judge commented. 'Did you know how to make the drug yourself?'

'Manufacture it, you mean?'

Dr Wagner objected once more.

'I never tried,' Petr said.

'How old were you at the time?'

'It depends. When I first ran away I was thirteen.'

'Did you first use a drug at that time?'

Petr could not remember.

'Surely you can recall something as important as that in your life?'

'I don't know whether it was then, but it was fairly early on. Everyone was popping it then.'

'Who was everyone?'

'My pals.'

'The members of your gang! Do you still mix with them?'

'No.'

'So who were you mixing with when they arrested you?'

'I'd found new friends and acquaintances.'

'Where?'

'At the place I was working, and in the church.'

'I assume that they didn't incite you to crime.'

'No, on the contrary.'

'Did they know about it?'

'No, definitely not!'

'And what would they say about it?'

Petr said they would definitely try to talk him out of it.

'So you deny selling drugs to minors?'

Petr said he had never sold anything to beginners.

'We'll see what the witnesses have to say. You have testified that you did not know the person who supplied you with the drug, is that not so?'

Petr repeated that he did not know the person.

'Doesn't that strike you as rather implausible?'

'In that trade it's best not to know anyone by name,' Petr explained.

'You weren't interested where he got it from or when you were to come for a new supply?'

'We'd reach an agreement.'

'What did you call him?'

'We didn't use names.'

'Did he know yours?'

'No.'

'And you'd never met him before — on some trip, I mean?'

'No.'

'Did you know any other dealers who got supplies from him?'

'No.'

'When you were interviewed,' the judge said, 'you stated that you wanted to get money to publish a magazine. What kind of magazine was it supposed to be?'

'I wanted people to understand the importance of the Holy Spirit for their lives.'

The judge was taken aback by the answer and said nothing for some moments. Daniel was gripped by an almost suffocating sense of shame. That lad was misusing terms that would be better left unsaid. People should avoid words whose meaning was still a mystery to them. But who respected that principle? We live in a world of empty words. He glanced at Eva once more. She had reacted differently to Petr's statement: there were tears in her eyes.

Then the judge dictated Petr's reply word for word. The sound of the clattering of a typewriter and Eva's sobbing.

At last the judge asked: 'And didn't it seem odd to you to obtain money for that purpose by means that were diametrically opposed to your objectives?'

'I didn't know of any other way.'

'But you had a job of work, hadn't you? Except that you left it.'

'Because you can't make money by working.'

'That's rather a bold statement.'

'I couldn't have saved a single crown from my pay.'

'And didn't it occur to you that there were other ways of obtaining money?'

'What other ways, your Honour?'

'Some church or other might have given you a contribution for such a purpose.'

'No, your Honour. They wouldn't have given it to me.'

'Did you publish at least one issue of the magazine?'

'No.'

'In other words, the magazine existed only in your imagination.'

'I really wanted to do it. I wanted people to lead better lives. I wanted them to know that only through the Holy Spirit, not through any of our deeds, can we be saved.'

The judge said that Petr wasn't here on account of his magazine, and never would be. He was here for quite a different offence. If he had genuinely wanted to obtain funds for a useful purpose, then in his view it was most regrettable as he had only harmed the thing he sought to benefit. Finally, he asked if he was sorry for his actions.

Petr said he was sorry he had been unable to start doing what he had wanted to do.

'I am asking you,' the judge said, 'whether you are sorry for the crime you have committed?'

Petr said nothing. Then he glanced quickly at the place where Eva was sitting.

'I'm sorry,' he said quietly. 'I'm sorry most of all that I deceived the people who believed in me.'

8 Letters

Dear Reverend Vedra,

I ought to have written to you ages ago, but I was shy and I didn't want to take up your time either. Most of all I want to thank you for Barcelona. I think it has to be the most wonderful experience of my life, not just because we saw so many wonderful things such as paintings, houses, parks and even

that old Roman fort, for instance, but most of all because I was there with Mum. We'd never been on our own like that before, except for when I was in first class at the primary school. And thanks to you my allergy has disappeared. The sunshine and the sea air sent it packing.

I thought to myself that you really must be very fond of Mum to have done something for her and for me that neither my Dad nor my stepfather would do. I'd like to repay you in some way but I don't know how or what I could do for you. Some time in the future perhaps. One possibility is that I enjoy fiddling around with tape recorders and suchlike machines. If anything went wrong with something of yours, even the computer, I could have a go at repairing it (no guarantee though).

There was something else I wanted to tell you. Ever since Mum first met you she's been totally different. She doesn't get the blues any more and she is actually glad to be alive. So I'd like to thank you for that too and hope that you are happier, because Mum is the best thing alive. I know it sounds daft coming from her son, but it's a fact.

Best wishes and thanks again,

Saša

Dear Bára,

I hoped we'd see each other as soon as you got back, but something happened that has taken maybe not all my time but certainly all my energy. Or rather, it rudely awoke me from the state of rapture I had been in. I told myself I wasn't going to burden you with my troubles, you have enough of your own. But I can't keep to myself something that has deeply affected my life. So: Eva's expecting a baby. And what's more, with Petr, one of those two lads I'd promised to take care of when they were still in prison. Petr is back inside again (he's just been given another two years) for drug dealing.

I always regarded myself as liberal-minded. Far more so than my vocation permitted, in fact. I understand young people making love before they get married, but her choice frightens me because it will probably burden her for the rest of her life, and I feel guilty for having influenced that choice, by my exaggerated belief in people's capacity to reform themselves and by the sympathy I've shown, both of which have influenced Eva. I also feel guilty about neglecting her over these recent years. First of all because I became so

enthused about the freedom I now had to pursue my vocation. I gave generously of my time and energy wherever I went, but left almost nothing for my home. And then, as you know yourself, my life became centred on my love for you and I let Eva out of my thoughts just at the moment when she needed me, just when I could and should have been at hand. And she had no one else but me.

I don't know whether it is still possible for me to make amends in some way. I feel as if I have betrayed everything and everyone, that I have hurt the people I loved and still love. You too, in other words. No harm was intended, it was more a matter of weakness. The trouble is it is deeds not intentions that count in life. The same applies to love which I've preached about so often and which I declared to you.

Love Dan

My dearest, my one and only love,

It's ages since you last got in touch with me. I called you twice, but your wife always picked up the phone. Yesterday I wanted to run to you, to find you and placetmyself under the protection of your love and your strength. It wasn't from some whim but from desperation. Sam has gone mad and I mean that seriously: he has gone mad and wanted to kill me, to shoot me like quail, like a little Bosnian girl caught in a sniper's sights. I don't know why he didn't in the end, the pistol was loaded. He has gone mad and he is crazy enough to do anything.

My darling, you of all people know that even though I found you and love you, I haven't abandoned him. I've taken care of him a thousand times more than I have you, I've respected his sense of order. I wanted to preserve the home on account of Aleš, but for Sam too, because I once loved him. I was sorry for him when I saw how his powers were declining and his manliness was going. Yes, I was sorry for him and not for myself and I tried hard to satisfy his whims, all his selfish requests, anything to stop him lapsing into those depressions of his.

But now he's gone completely round the bend. He thinks I'm the reincarnation of some murderess that murdered her husbands and children in England about a hundred and fifty years ago. It looks as if he really believes that I want to poison him too — he can think that about me, who

has sat by his bedside when he was ill and held his hand so he shouldn't feel alone in his illness.

Darling, I don't know what I'm supposed to do, what I'm to do with him and with myself, what I'm to do with his life and mine. If I didn't have you, I wouldn't want to live any more, I might even have begged him to pull the trigger when he had me in his sights. You are my salvation, the only person I have left, not counting my mother who is already old and my children who are in no position to help, apart from giving me another reason to live.

Can it be possible that I really am so terrible and that my husband is so desperate on account of me that it has unhinged his mind? Tell me truthfully, do you really think I'm impossible to live with?

I feel sad because I miss you. I feel sad because of me, and life and my husband who sits locked in his room and is probably even more desolate than me, because he doesn't have you, he just has his ailments and a pistol, that he can use to shoot himself or me, depending on his mood.

I know that everything has to end one day, but don't forsake me yet, don't forsake me now, my darling.

Your sad and loving Bára

Prague, 20 March 1995

Dear Brother Vedra,

The board of Diakonia has discussed your proposal for setting up a centre connected to your congregation.

The Diakonia organization is a great gift from Our Lord and gives us an opportunity to make our church, our principles and our work more visible.

Even though the work of the Diakonia receives a partial subsidy from the state we are always fighting to make ends meet, among other reasons because the wealthier churches in the democratic countries which generously supported our activity after the revolution have now found recipients in other parts of the world, those who have greater need of their gifts than we do. The board therefore particularly values your commitment to finance part of the costs of converting rooms for diaconal activity and for the purchase of necessary equipment from your own private funds. This

is a further reason why we chiefly leave it up to you whom you wish to employ in the centre and what area of handicap you wish to focus on. For your information, however, we would like to tell you that the greatest need at the moment is for the care of young paraplegics and people with a hearing disability.

We all have a high regard for your work and regard your decision as further evidence of the goodness of your heart and the intensity of your faith, that you so readily confirm in your actions.

May the Lord assist you in your work.

On behalf of the Board.

Bárta

Dear Daddy,

I've decided to write to you, because when I speak, the right words never come to me quickly enough and I am no match for your eloquence.

I know you wanted me to become a pianist and perform for people because you consider music to be the first step towards a better and more spiritual life. And apart from that you hoped I'd continue what Mum scarcely had time to begin.

Dad, there have been times when I also wished very much for all that on account of you, on account of Mum's memory, and also on account of myself. The trouble is that I, unlike you, lack the will. I'm unable to do the real groundwork in order to achieve what I want. Or I only manage it sometimes. Then there are other moments when everything seems pointless to me. I just feel like lying about, looking up at the sky, or not looking anywhere at all. But I did show a bit of willpower though: when I gave up speed in time. You won't want to believe this, but it was Petr who helped me with that most of all. He explained to me the horrible situation I would be rushing into. He also helped me with his love. Or rather it was not so much his love as my love for him. And that's something you taught me, after all, that love is the most important thing in life. That to believe in Jesus means taking the path of love, compassion and sacrifice. That's the way you have lived, after all, and so has Mum — by whom I mean Hana.

I know you're cross with me, as if I've betrayed something, and you refuse to accept that Petr and I could live in love. But I can't abandon him just because he's slipped up.

I thought you might have understanding for me in this, or that at least you wouldn't condemn me.

Something else I wanted to write to you about is the feeling I have that things have changed at home somehow. It started some time ago when we had so little time for each other, but now it's as if we're almost strangers. Since when? Could it be since the time you sold that house? We live differently. You'd say we think less about the spirit and more about material things.

But maybe it's not to do with that house, or any of you. Maybe it's just me. Maybe the fact I'm dissatisfied with myself gets projected on to you.

Daddy, the only thing I feel I could be a little bit pleased with myself over is precisely the fact that I didn't abandon Petr when he needed me. And after all I haven't abandoned the piano either. As soon as the baby is born and gets a bit bigger, I'll go back to playing again, God willing.

Please understand me and don't condemn me. I believe that Our Lord won't condemn me for the decision I've taken.

Forgive me for this letter too.

Love, Eva

Dear Dan,

I've received your letter about Eva. I can understand you're unhappy about what has happened, but now that something like that has happened, perhaps some good can come of it. That would be my view, anyway, because you can't see inside other people and what looks like a misfortune to one person can look like good fortune to another. Don't think these are just empty words, in my own experience that's the way things are generally.

I also read into your letter that you blame yourself for neglecting your daughter because of me as well, and that you're wondering whether you oughtn't to expel me from your life as soon as possible.

My darling, I can assure you that I will never be a burden for you. You're important to me only as a loving person not as a self-constraining one.

If you feel that our love is in some way an obstacle in your life and prevents you from fulfilling what you see as your duties, you just need to say: go away! And I'll disappear from your life and you won't hear of me again.

Your loving and understanding Bára

Dear Dan,

Marie and I have discussed what we spoke about in Zlín. If you really need someone to stand in for you, and providing you obtain the agreement of the Elders, Marie could take it on. (Our children are already big enough to do without her fussing over them.) So come to some agreement with Marie about how long you'd need her assistance, and whether it's only to be assistance or if you want to divest yourself of all responsibilities. I think that Marie would prefer the former. After all, it's ten years since she worked with a congregation and she is afraid that by now she might not cope with it all.

The way I understood it, what led you to request help were various matters connected with 'work'. None of us can avoid crises in our lives, nor moments when we are at a loss as to where to turn, when we question everything we do and the way we live. Dan, I've always been fond of you and respected you precisely because you never made any secret of your anxieties and misgivings, and yet you managed to live the way you have lived. I believe you'll manage to cope with things the way you have coped with them in the past. And may the Lord help you in this.

Yours, Martin

Dear Bára,

Don't go away, don't go away, don't go away!

Dan