love. I thought that—”
“Then stop thinking and do as you promised. You had an appointment with me and you shall keep it.”
“I have to talk with my publisher about the money he owes me, my love. I haven’t got a penny left to buy anything for the children’s supper. Please understand.”
“You are being unfair to me! I moved from Hybernská Street to be close to you. When I arrive a little late, despite wishing more than anything to get here earlier, you’re not even waiting for me. You are busy writing, as if we had arranged nothing. And finally, when we’ve been together for only a quarter of an hour, you’re already in a hurry to answer the call of literature, the only thing that matters to you. What do I mean to you? Tell me! I suppose I am only useful to you as an inspiration for words and more words and nothing else, the miserable spark that lights up a story.”
His protest seemed to her then to be an unfair accusation. Today, in that damp winter dusk, in the middle of a street in the rain, she saw things quite differently. She drew back the silvery curtain of rain and, quick as lightning, a sudden realization struck her: he had moved close to her home not to pester her but to be with her as often as possible. However for her the situation was different: she didn’t need his constant presence, she carried it within her and wrote about him. She transformed him into the paladins of her folktales and into the tender lovers of her novels. She wrote tirelessly, she slept only three or four hours a day, she ate little. She was nourished by a feeling of joy.
The church bell started ringing again. She imagined herself embracing him as they walk under that streetlamp next to the oak tree. With each new chime she became aware of more details: his hat, always worn at a slight angle, his pitching walk, his cane swinging upward. She felt such a strong desire to really be with him that she even felt his coffee-laced breath on her cheek. No, he hadn’t appeared yet.
Again the bells chimed, as if there were an emergency. Are they tolling non-stop? Is it possible that I could have spent the last hour and a half in the rain? I’d better go back home. He’s probably been delayed somewhere and can’t get away. Poor man, he must be fretting; he must be thinking about me. She increased her pace. At home she would make a full pot of tea, in case he dropped by and was cold and hungry. She passed Archers’ Island, Sofia Island—not a soul anywhere, everything shining clean as a whistle, the rain had cleansed it all. Home wasn’t far now.
Suddenly, in the light of a streetlamp, she recognized the couple she had dreamed of a moment ago. A tall, broad-shouldered man, with a hat tipped to one side, swung his cane into the air. He was walking arm in arm with a woman who was fragile-looking and so stooped she might be a hunchback. They stopped in the darkness between the streetlamps, the woman’s face was transparent, her fingers, which now stretched out to the man’s hair, were translucent, like those of a corpse. He embraced her . . . He embraced her with that familiar movement of his right hand, with that mixture of possessive instinct and desire to defend. No, there was no doubting it, that was him. Now he was kissing the woman. She recognized the woman as her friend Antonia Zaleski, now called Vítězka.
With an effort, she walked back home. For a good while she struggled with the lock because she found it difficult to turn the key. Until she realized she was at the wrong house.
Božena will turn up any second now. She’s gone to the drugstore to buy a little tea,” Němec says disgruntled, as he continues to read his newspaper.
Alone in her room, I dare to take a look at her desk. There is a half-written letter but I can’t find the opening page, so I don’t know to whom it is addressed.
“ . . . this is good weather in which to die of desperation. When I look at the thick gray fog that crushes us like a nightmare, the naked trees from which all the leaves have fallen as our hopes are falling from us, when I see the empty, opaque atmosphere,