Chapter 14 Chapter 5 The poet is jealous (2) (1)

Now Mama had to go on brazenly; she sat down beside the girl. "What happened to you? I just got home and heard such a horrible noise... poor man!" She shook out twenty pills and put them on a sugar cube. "I know all about these cramps! Suck this and you'll be fine in no time..." She lifted the candy to the girl's mouth.The girl's lips stretched out obediently for the candy, just as they obediently extended for Jaromil's kiss. Maman burst into her son's room in ecstatic rage.The anger had subsided now, but the excitement was still there: staring at the small, slightly parted mouth, she felt a strong desire to pull the blanket off the girl and see her naked.To destroy the unity of the little hostile world of the girl and Jaromil; to caress what he caressed; to claim it, to possess it; to wrap both bodies in her airy embrace; In their hideous nudity (she noticed Jaromil's shorts lying on the floor); came among them rudely and ignorantly, as if it were all a colic problem; As before with Jaromil, feeding him with her naked breast; crossing this bridge of ignorance into their play and their love; covering their nakedness like the sky, and They are one...

Her agitation terrified her.She advised the girl to take a deep breath and left the room quickly. A closed minibus was parked in front of the police headquarters building, and a group of poets had gathered around it waiting for the driver.Among them were two policemen who were one of the organizers of the poetry evening, and Jaromil was among the group.He knew the faces of several poets (for example, the gray-haired poet who had attended a meeting at Jaromil's school and read a poem about youth).Although the recent publication of five of his poems in a literary magazine had eased his shyness somewhat, he still dared not speak to any of them.Just in case, he tucked the magazine in the breast pocket of his coat, which made one side of his breast flat like a man's and the other half provocative like a woman's.

The driver finally arrived, and the poets (there were eleven, including Jaromil) climbed into the bus.After driving for an hour, the car stopped in the idyllic countryside, the poets came out, and the two police officers showed them a river, a garden, a villa, and led them through the whole building, classrooms, auditorium (Here the merry evening begins soon); they are forced to peek into a row of dormitories with three beds each, where the men taking the police course live (startled, the men jump to attention, as if in the exaggerated military stance employed in official inspections), the poets were finally led to the commander's office.What awaited them was a plate of sandwiches, two bottles of wine, a commander in military uniform, and better yet, a particularly beautiful girl.They in turn shook hands with their commanders and grunted their names.The commander pointed at the girl. "This young lady is in charge of our film group." He began to explain to the eleven poets (who, in turn, were shaking hands with the girl) that the People's Police Force had its own club where enrichment was taking place. cultural life.They have a drama group, a chorus, and recently a film group under the direction of this young lady; currently a student at film school, she has been happy to help young police officers.They worked hard to give her everything she needed: a fancy camera, the latest lighting, and most of all, enthusiastic lads; the conductor joked that he didn't quite know that the enthusiasm came from an interest in film , was inspired by an interest in this young and beautiful filmmaker.

After shaking everyone's hand, the young lady nodded to a group of young men standing behind a giant reflector, and moments later the poets and conductors found themselves munching on sandwiches under the glare of spotlights.The conductor tried to have a natural, relaxed conversation, but was constantly interrupted by the girl's orders to the film crew.The lighting changes a few times, and finally the camera starts humming softly.After a few minutes of filming, the conductor thanked the poets for their cooperation.He looked at his watch and said that everyone was already eagerly waiting for them.

"This way, comrade poets," said one organizer, beginning to read their names on a sheet of writing.The poets lined up in alphabetical order and marched to the rostrum at his signal.There is a long table on the stage, and each chair is marked with the poet's name seat card.There was a round of applause from the packed auditorium as they sat down. This was the first time Jaromil appeared in front of the crowd.His heart was full of ecstasy, and this intoxication never left him all night.All in all, everything went well.After the poets had taken their assigned seats, an organizer walked up to the small podium at one end of the long table, welcomed the eleven poets, and introduced them.The poets whose names were mentioned stood up and bowed one by one, and bursts of applause erupted in the hall.Jaromil also bowed, overwhelmed by the applause, and took a moment to notice that the janitor's son was waving to him in the front row.He nodded in reply, and this little gesture was seen by the audience, and it gave him such a pleasant feeling of ease that he nodded to his friend several times during the party, like a man on stage who feels A completely at ease, comfortable person.

The poets sat in alphabetical order, and Jaromil found himself exactly to the left of the silver-haired poet. "My dear child! What a surprise! I saw your poems in a magazine the other day." Jaromil smiled politely, and the poet continued, "I am determined to remember your name. They Excellent poems indeed, I really like them." Before he could go on, the organizer went up to the microphone again and asked the poets to choose some of their recent works for a reading. So the poets went to the podium one by one in alphabetical order, recited a few poems, thanked the audience for their applause, and then returned to their seats.Jaromil anxiously waited for his turn; he was afraid of stuttering, he was afraid of his voice trembling, he was afraid of everything; he stood up and walked like a sleepwalker towards the lectern; he had no time to think.He began to read aloud, and his confidence grew after reading a few lines.As soon as the poem was finished, it won warm applause, which lasted longer than any poet before him.

This reward boosted Jaromil's self-confidence, and he recited the second poem even more confidently.Little did he notice that two huge reflectors suddenly lit up, and the camera buzzed a few paces away.He pretended not to be aware of the activity and continued his recitation smoothly.He even lifted his eyes from the paper to look across the dimly lit auditorium and at that particular spot next to the camera, where the beautiful young producer stood.There was another round of applause, Jaromil read two more poems, heard the buzzing of the camera, saw the face of Nara's filmmaker, bowed, and returned to his seat.At this moment, the white-haired and silver-threaded poet stood up from his chair, tilted his solemn head back, and stretched his arms, wrapping tightly around Jaromil's back. "My friend, you are a poet! You are a poet!" Then, as the applause continued, he turned to the audience, bowing his silver-haired head.

After the performance of the eleventh poet, the organizer went to the podium again, thanked each poet, and then announced a short break. After the break, any listener who is interested can come back to talk with the poets. "This part of the show is not forced, it is voluntary and only involves those who are interested." Jaromil was intoxicated; people clasped his hands and gathered around him; a poet introduced himself as the editor of a publishing house and expressed surprise that Jaromil had not yet published a book; he asked Jaromil Mill sent him an anthology; another poet invited him to a meeting arranged by a student organization.Of course, the janitor's son was also next to Jaromil, explaining to everyone that the two had been good friends since childhood.The conductor shook Jaromil's hand and said, "It seems that the crown tonight belongs to the youngest poet!"

Then he turned to the other poets, announcing that he regretted that he would not be able to attend the seminar because he had to officiate at a dance that was beginning next door.He joked with a smile that the girls from the nearby villages were all flocking to the ballroom because his policemen were a bunch of handsome lads. "It doesn't matter, comrades, I'm sure this won't be your last visit here. Thank you for your beautiful and inspiring poems! You are welcome to visit us again soon!" He shook hands with everyone before leaving for the next hall Yes, dance music is already coming from there.

The auditorium, which echoed with deafening applause a few minutes ago, is now silent and almost empty.The poets gathered in a small circle and waited in front of the podium, still thrilled by the response to their performance.A police officer stepped up to the microphone and announced: "Comrades, the break is over and I revert the floor to our distinguished guests. Those who would like to participate in the discussion, please sit down?" The poets returned to their seats, and about ten people sat facing them in the front row of the empty auditorium.Among them were the janitor's son; the two organizers who accompanied the poets in the car, an old man with a wooden leg on crutches, several unobtrusive-looking men, and even two women.One looks to be about fifty (perhaps the secretary in the office), and the other is the filmmaker, who has finished her shoot and is looking at the poets with large, calm eyes.The joyful dance music next door grew louder and more seductive, but to the poets the presence of the beautiful woman was all the more meaningful and inspiring.The number of poets sitting on the stage was roughly equal to the number of people sitting in the first row of the auditorium. The two groups watched each other cautiously, like two football teams lined up on the field, waiting for the kick-off.A painful silence continued as Jaromil became more and more uneasy about the capabilities of his team.

However, Jaromil underestimated his companions.Some of them have been through hundreds of such occasions, so this kind of discussion has become their specialty.Let's also recall the history before and after: this was an era of discussions and meetings.All sorts of associations, caucuses, workers' clubs and fraternities were busy organizing evenings, inviting painters, poets, astronomers, agronomists and economists of all kinds to their meetings.The organizers of such events were respected and rewarded for their efforts, because the time required revolutionary activity; but in the absence of revolutionary obstacles, this enthusiasm had to be channeled into meetings and discussions.And painters, poets, agronomists, and economists loved meeting because it proved that they were not only esoteric experts but true revolutionaries who lived with the masses. So poets are intimately familiar with the questions posed by their audiences; they know that they will recur over and over again according to the absolute laws of statistical law.They know someone will ask: Comrade, how did you start writing in the first place?They know people still ask: How old were you when you wrote your first poem?They know someone will ask: who is your favorite author?There will certainly be people in the audience asking questions like this in order to show their familiarity with Marxism: Comrade, how do you understand socialist realism?They know that in addition to asking questions, the audience will exhort them to write more poems about (1) the occupations of the people present at the seminar. (2) youth, (3) the sins of life under capitalism. (4) LOVE. The first moment of silence was not due to inexperience; on the contrary, it was caused by poets acting too conventionally and professionally.In a way, perhaps bad coordination is also to blame, since the group of poets had never been together before, and they had no pre-agreed tee-off. Finally, the silver-haired poet broke the silence, and he It was beautifully and encouragingly delivered, and after a ten-minute extemporaneous speech he invited the row to ask whatever questions came to their mind.Now that the poets have become enthusiastic about this competition, they showed their eloquence and automatically cooperated seamlessly.They let each of the poets act appropriately, complimenting each other tactfully, answering gravely now, and telling anecdotes wittily now.All basic standard questions are properly asked and standard answers are properly given. (Who wouldn't be fascinated by the white-haired poet's answer to when and how to write his first poem? He explains that he would never have become a poet if it wasn't for his cat Mickey, because It was she who inspired him to compose his first poem at the age of five. He started reciting it, and as the row across the way wondered if he should take it seriously, he started giggling, and all of them— Poets and questioners—all laugh heartily.) The expected exhortation also appeared.It was Jaromil's old classmate who stood up first and made a serious statement.Yes, the poetry evening was fantastic and all the poets were first class.But has anyone noticed that despite the fact that thirty-three poems were presented (assuming an average of three poems per poet), none of them mentioned national security forces, even indirectly?Who can really insist that in our lives, the people's police have not played a thirty-third role worthy of at least our attention and respect? Then, the middle-aged woman stood up.She said that she fully agreed with what Jaromil's old classmate had just expressed, but she had a completely different question: why so few people write about love these days?There was a muffled laugh from the line of questioners.The woman continued: After all, under socialism people also love each other, and they will like some poems about love. The silver-haired poet stood up, bowed, and said that the lady was quite right.Why should a socialist be ashamed of love?What's wrong with love?I'm an old man, he said, but I'm not afraid to admit that I can't help turning my head when I see women in thin summer dresses showing off their youthful bodies.The line of questioners snickered in sympathy for their complicity in the crime.The old poet went on to say: What should I dedicate to these young and beautiful women?Should I give them a hammer with a red ribbon on it?Or should I bring a scythe to stick in their vase when I come to pay my respects?No, I give them roses; love poems are like the roses we give to lovely women. Yes, that's right, the woman eagerly agreed.Encouraged by this repercussion, the old poet drew a bundle of manuscripts from his coat pocket, and recited a long love poem. Yes, yes, this is beautiful, said the woman excitedly.But at this time, a police officer who had been the organizer of the party stood up and said that these lines are indeed beautiful, but even a love poem should let people distinguish whether it was written by a socialist poet or not . But how can socialist love poetry be distinguished from other love poems?asked the woman, still fascinated by the old poet's grey-haired head, melancholy bowed, by his poetry. Jaromil remained silent while the others spoke, but he knew he had to speak, and he felt that his moment had finally come.After all, he had thought about it long ago, back in the days when he visited the painter and listened attentively to his talks about the new art and the new world. Ah, it's a painter again, and the voice and words of a painter come out of Jaromil's mouth again! What did he say?In the old bourgeois society, love was seriously deformed by money, social status and various prejudices. It could never be itself, it was always just a shadow of true love.Only in the new era, when the power of money and the influence of prejudice are swept away, can people become complete people and restore the brilliance of love.Socialist love poetry is the voice of this great, liberating emotion. Satisfied with his eloquence, Jaromil noticed a pair of calm black eyes looking suspiciously at him.He felt that the words "true love" and "liberated emotion" flowed from his mouth like brave ships sailing into the harbor of those big black eyes. But when he was done, one of the poets smiled sarcastically and said, "Do you really think you have more emotion in your poetry than in Heinrich Heine's? Victor Hugo's love is to you Does that seem base? Do you want to tell us that the love of a man like Neruda has been deformed by money and prejudice?" An unexpected hit.Jaromil didn't know what to do; he blushed, and those dark eyes saw his shame. The middle-aged woman took pleasure in Jaromil's companion's mocking attack, saying: "Comrades, why do you interfere with love? Love is always the same, thank God." The organizer replied: "Oh, no, comrade, you are wrong!" "No, that's not quite what I meant," put in the poet quickly, "but the difference between old love poetry and modern love poetry is not the force and truth of emotion." "So, what's the difference?" asked the middle-aged woman. "Here: Once upon a time, love—even the highest love—was always an escape from the wearisome social life. But today, people's love has nothing to do with our social responsibilities, our work, our collective The struggles of the two are closely linked. This is the new superiority of modern love poetry." The people in the opposite row agreed with this systematic exposition, but Jaromil suddenly laughed contemptuously: "This superiority, my dear friend, is not new at all. Didn't the great writers of the past associate love with social struggle?" Rise up? The lovers in Shelley's famous poem are revolutionaries who gave their lives together in a moment of life and death. Is this what you mean by love divorced from social life?" There was an embarrassing silence.Just now, Jaromil did not know how to answer the objection of his colleague, and now it is his turn to be at a loss for words, so the impression (an unacceptable impression) arises: between yesterday and today there was no The real difference, the new world is actually an illusion.In fact, the middle-aged woman stood up again and cried out with an eager smile, "We're waiting, comrades. Tell us—what's the difference between love today and love in the past?" At this critical moment, when everyone panicked, the man with the wooden leg stepped in.He had been listening carefully to the debate, but was visibly impatient.Now he struggled to his feet, reclining himself upright in his chair. "Comrades, allow me to introduce myself," he said, and his rowmates started yelling at him, which was unnecessary because they all knew him so well. "I am not introducing myself to you, but to fellow poets, our guests," he retorted.Knowing that the introduction of his name would mean little to poets, he began to give a brief account of his life.He had worked on the site for nearly thirty years; he had been employed here during the days of Mr. Kokwala, the factory owner who used the villa as his summer residence.He remained here throughout the war, and when the Gestapo arrested Mr. Kokwala, they took over the house as a recreation center.The villa was given over to Catholics after the war and is now owned by the police. "But from what I've seen, no government cares about us working people as much as the Communist Party does." Even so, things are not quite as they should be today. "In Kokwara's time, in Gestapo time, in Catholic time, the bus stop was always opposite the villa." How convenient that was.He just steps out the door to the bus stop.Suddenly, for no apparent reason, they moved the station two blocks away.He protested against every government department and agency he could think of.Useless.He pounded the floor with his cane: "This villa should belong to the working people now! So please tell me why a working person like me has to walk two streets to catch a bus?" The man in the front replied (half impatiently, half amusingly) that they had explained to him a hundred times that the bus would now stop in front of the new factory. The man with the wooden leg replied that he knew all this, but that he suggested a station at both places. The guy in the same row said that the bus makes two stops within two blocks, which is bullshit. The word "crap" offended the wooden-legged man.He said no one had the right to speak to him like that.He tapped the floor with his cane, his face flushed with anger.Anyway, it is not true that two stations cannot be built between the distance of two blocks.He had seen such stations on other traffic routes. One of the organizers stands up and repeats verbatim (apparently how many times he has done this in the past) the decision of the Czechoslovak Ministry of Motor Transport: special prohibition, closer to the specified minimum distance between bus stops. The man with the wooden leg pointed out that he had suggested a half-way solution.Why not set the parking lot between the villa and the new factory? This will only make it inconvenient for both the workers and the police, they replied. The debate has been going on for twenty minutes, and the poets are trying in vain to join in.The row opposite was immersed in a topic with which they were all too familiar; the poets were not given a chance to speak.The argument ended only when the wooden-legged man, tired of the objections of his colleagues, sat down sullenly in his chair.In the silence that followed, dance music from the next door filled the hall. No one wanted to say anything.A police officer stood up and thanked the poets for their visit and interesting discussion.The silver-haired poet, speaking on behalf of the guests, said that the discussion was more profitable for the poets than for the listeners (which often happened), and that it was the poets who should be grateful for the opportunity. In the next room a singer sang a popular tune; the row across the way gathered around the wooden-legged man to quell his irritation, and the poets found themselves sidelined.It was a while before the janitor's son and the two organizers approached them and took them to the bus. The handsome film-making student went back with the poets.As the car sped through the night toward Prague, poets surrounded her, each trying to get her attention.By bad luck Jaromil found himself sitting too far away from the girl to join in the entertainment.He thought of his red-haired girl and realized more and more clearly how hopelessly ugly she was. The car stopped in the center of Prague, and some poets decided to drop by a hotel.Jaromil and the handsome filmmaker followed.They sat around a large table, chatting and drinking, and the girl suggested that they go to her place.By this time only a few people remained: Jaromil, the white-haired poet, and the editor of the publishing house.They were sitting comfortably in a beautiful room on the second floor of a modern villa that the girl was about to sublet.They chatted and drank. The old poet focused on the girl with a passion unmatched.He sat beside her, praised her beauty, recited poems to her, improvised charming poems in her praise, from time to time knelt before her on one leg; grasped her hands.The editor was almost as hospitable to Jaromil.Instead of praising his beauty, he repeats over and over again: You are a poet, you are a poet! (Let us note that if a poet calls another man a poet, it is quite different from an engineer calling another man an engineer, or a farmer calling another man a farmer. A farmer is merely a farmer. A poet Not just a man who wrote poetry, but one who was chosen by God to write poetry. Only a poet can find this characteristic of grace in a fellow poet. Let us recall Rimbaud's letter: All poets Brothers. Only a brother can discover the family's secret emblem.) The filmmaker had been staring at Jaromil, kneeling before her the white-haired poet, whose hands fell victim to his ardent praise.Jaromil soon realized the girl's attention, and he was elated and looked back at her.What a nice rectangle!The old poet stared at the girl, the editor at Jaromil, and Jaromil and the girl stared at each other. This sight geometry is disrupted only once, and only for a brief moment.The editor took Jaromil's arm, led him to the balcony of the adjoining room, and begged him to join him in urinating over the railing into the yard below.Jaromil happily complied, as he desperately wanted the editor to keep his promise and publish a collection of his poems. When they came back from the balcony, the old poet got up from the ground and said that it was time to go.He saw clearly, he said, that he was not the man the girl wanted.He asked the editor (who was far less observant and thoughtful than the old poet) to leave the young couple alone.Because that's exactly what this young couple wanted and deserved.As the old poet explained - they are the prince and princess of the night. When the editor finally understood the situation and was about to leave, the old poet was already holding his arm and pulling him towards the door.Jaromil knew that he would soon be alone with the girl, who was sitting in a large armchair with her legs crossed, her curly black hair hanging on her shoulders, and her eyes were fixed on him... The story of two soon-to-be lovers is so timeless that it almost makes us forget history.What a delight to tell such a love story!What a joy it is to forget the monstrosity that eats away at our ephemeral beings (like cement that wears away monuments).What a joy it is to forget history! But history is knocking at the door, to enter our story.It is not coming in the guise of the secret police, or of a sudden revolution.The entry of history is not always dramatic, and it often seeps into everyday life like dirty dishwater.In our story, the entrance to history is in underwear. In the era we are describing, elegance was considered a political crime in Jaromil's country.Clothes were terrible (the war was just over and everything was still in short supply).Especially elegant underwear, in that gloomy age was almost regarded as a luxury that should be severely punished!Men, annoyed by the ugly panties that were being sold at the time (shorts that were exceptionally baggy to the knees, leaving a ridiculous wedge-shaped opening above the belly), turned to linen sweatpants, worn mainly for sports and fitness , known as "training shorts" or "trainers".Thus, that era witnessed the spectacle of all the men of Bohemia dressed like football players, climbing into the beds of their wives and lovers.The bedroom was like a playground in those days, but judging by the aesthetics of the clothes, it wasn't too bad: the "coach" had the lightness of an athlete and wore bright colors - blue, green, red ,yellow. Jaromil usually didn't pay much attention to his clothes, because his mother took care of him.She chooses his clothes and underwear, she makes sure they are warm enough so that he doesn't catch a cold; she knows exactly how many sets of underwear Jaromil has; Which outfit did you wear that day?She gets annoyed if she finds out that she doesn't have any of her usual underwear in her closet.She doesn't like Jaromil wearing "trainers" because she doesn't think such shorts are proper underwear and should only be worn when exercising.If Jaromil objected that standard panties were ugly, she would reply with barely concealed anger, and no one would see them on him.So whenever Jaromil went to visit the red-haired girl, he always took out a pair of underwear from the wardrobe, hid them in his desk, and quietly put on the brightly colored "trainer". This time, however, he had no idea what the evening was going to bring, and he was wearing a pair of horrible underpants, baggy, worn, and gray! You might think it was a trivial problem, he could easily turn off the light so the girl couldn't see his panties, but a small lamp with a pink shade was throwing an amorous light across the room, Eagerly waiting to light the way for the two lovers to a mutual revel; Jaromil could not imagine asking the girl to turn off the light. Or maybe it occurred to you that he might take off that ugly pair of panties with his trousers.But Jaromil would never have thought of this idea, because he had never done such a thing before.The sudden undressing frightened him.He always undressed gradually; when he was with the red-haired girl, he always made love to her in his shorts until the last moment, when he was excited to take them off. So he stood there in terror, facing those big black eyes, and announced that it was time for him to go too. The old poet was very angry.He told Jaromil that a woman must never be insulted, and whispered to him the joy that awaited.But the words of the old poet only seemed to reinforce the ugliness hidden in his trousers.Under the gaze of those beautiful eyes, Jaromil's heart ached, and he retreated towards the door. Once in the street he was sad and regretful; he could not get the image of the pretty girl out of his mind.The gray-haired poet (who had said good night to the editor at a tram stop and was walking together through a dark street) tormented him with constant reproaches was not only disappointing but unmanly. Jaromil retorted that he hadn't meant to insult the young lady at all, but he loved his own girlfriend and she loved him just as passionately. You are so determined, said the old poet.After all, you're a poet, a man who loves life: making love to another woman doesn't hurt your girlfriend.Life is short, the opportunity must not be lost, the time will never come again. It hurts to hear those words.Jaromil replied that, in his opinion, a dedicated and noble love to which we poured everything is worth more than a thousand humble affairs; one of his girlfriends embraced all the women in the world; So charming was his girlfriend; so indescribably lovely, that it was easier for him to have a thousand unexpected adventures with such a girl than Don Juan had with a thousand and one girls. The old poet stopped; Jaromil's words had obviously moved him. "Perhaps you are right," said he, "but I am old, and a man of the old world. I must admit that, though I have been married, I am quite happy to be with that woman." The old poet bowed his head as Jaromil went on to elaborate on his idea of ​​the superiority of monogamous love. "Perhaps you are right, my friend. In fact I know you are. Have I not dreamed of a sublime love? A love single and sublime? A love as limitless as the universe Is it? But I missed my chance; dear friend, for the old world, the old world, tainted with money and whores, was not made for love." They were both a little bit intoxicated.The old poet puts his arms around the young poet's shoulders.They are standing in the middle of the road.The old poet raised his arms. "Let the old world perish! Long live love!" Jaromil found this posture graceful, unrestrained and poetic.The two of them shouted long and passionately into the dark depths of Prague: "Let the old world perish! Long live the sublime of love!" The gray-haired poet suddenly knelt down before Jaromil and kissed his hand. "My friend, do I praise your youth? My age praises your youth, because only the young can save the world!" He was silent for a moment; then he touched Jaromil's knee with his bare head, A melancholy tone added, "I applaud your noble love." They finally parted, and Jaromil soon found himself back in his room.An image of a beautiful, rejected woman emerges before his eyes.Driven by a self-punishing urge, he stood in front of the mirror and examined himself.He took off his trousers so he could see that he was wearing those ugly, worn-out underpants.他怀着强烈的厌恶，继续对着他那荒唐可笑的丑态看了很久很久。 后来，他意识到他的愤怒根本不是针对自己的。他正在想他的母亲——她为他挑选内裤，她迫使他不得不采取偷偷摸摸的花招，她熟悉他的每一件衬衫和袜子。他怀着仇恨想着他的母亲，那个用一根无形的长绳套住他的脖子，紧抓住他的母亲。 他开始比以前更加残酷地对待红头发姑娘。当然，这一残忍是掩藏在爱情受了伤害的幌子下：为什么你不努力理解我一点？难道你看不出我的情绪吗？难道我们变得这样陌生，你竟然猜不出什么在使我烦恼吗？如果你真的爱我，象我爱你那样，你应该感觉到我正在想什么。你为何总是对我不喜欢的事感兴趣？为什么你老是对我一会儿讲这个兄弟，一会儿讲那个兄弟，一会儿讲这个姐姐，一会讲那个妹妹？难道你没看出现在我正在考虑许多事，我需要你的帮助和支持，而不是要这些老谈自己的叽哩呱啦吗？ 姑娘自然要为自己辩护。谈论我的家庭有什么不好？你不是也对我谈你的家庭吗？难道你的母亲是人；我的母亲就不是么？然后她提醒他（自从那事发生以后，这还是第一次）他的母亲是怎样侵犯他们的私事，把她自己强加于他们。 雅罗米尔对他的母亲既爱又恨。现在他竭力为她辩护。母亲主动帮助我们有什么不好？这只是表明她喜欢你，她接受了你作为一个家庭成员。 红头发姑娘大笑起来：毫无疑问，你母亲知道肚子疼的呻吟和作爱时的叹息两者之间的区别！雅罗米尔受了侮辱，一脸愠怒，姑娘不得不请求他原谅。 一天，他们正在街上行走，红头发姑娘的手臂插在雅罗米尔的手臂下，他们执拗地沉默不语（只要他们没有互相责备时，他们就沉默不语，只要他们一讲话，他们就互相责备）。雅罗米尔看见两个漂亮的女人朝他们走来。一位很年轻。另一位大一些；年轻的那位更漂亮，更高雅，但另一位也挺好看，而且很有吸引力。雅罗米尔认识她们：一位是年轻的电影摄制者，另一位是他的母亲。 他脸红了，向她们打招呼。两个女人也回敬他们的招呼（母亲招呼他时带着一种夸张的快乐神气）。雅罗米尔手挽着他的丑姑娘，仿佛觉得那位漂亮的电影摄制者看见了他穿着他那可耻的内裤。 他一回到家就问母亲，她是怎么认识那位电影摄制者的。她用卖俏的戏谑回答说，她认识她有一段时期了。雅罗米尔催促她讲详细一点，但玛曼继续回避他的问话，就象一个姑娘逗弄她的情人一样；最后，她才告诉他：这位漂亮聪明的女人大约在两星期前首次来拜访她。她说她钦佩雅罗米尔是一个诗人，希望拍一部关于他的短片；这将是由国家警察电影俱乐部赞助拍摄的一部业余影片，但尽管如此，它肯定会有相当可观的观众。 "她为什么找你？她为什么不直接来找我？"雅罗米尔问。 母亲解释说，姑娘想先从她那里得到所有的背景材料，而不想打扰雅罗米尔。实际上，这姑娘真不错，还要求母亲写电影脚本！想象一下吧！初稿已经完成，一位年轻诗人的生活故事。 "你干吗什么也不告诉我？"雅罗米尔生气地问。母亲与那位拍电影学生之间的关系，本能地使他突然很不高兴。 "我们打算让这件事使你吃一惊。我们在街上遇见你，运气真不好。假若有一天你回到家推开门——一切都准备就绪：姑娘，摄制组，摄影机，马上就要开始拍电影。" 雅罗米尔在这件事上毫无选择；一天他回到家，发现那位年轻的电影摄制者已经在房子里。这一次，他穿着红色的"教练员"（自从那个倒霉的诗歌晚会之后，他就不再穿那种难看的内裤），但是，他还是感到象第一次遇见她时那样笨拙，缺乏自信。 这位拍电影的姑娘宣布（没人想费事征求雅罗米尔的意见），他们这一天都将拍记实的背景材料，例如儿童时代的照片；玛曼将作解说。雅罗米尔偶然得知，整部影片设想成一个母亲对诗人儿子的回忆。雅罗米尔很想问母亲心里在想些什么，但他害怕她的回答；他的脸红了。除了两位女人，房间里还有三个男人，围在照明设备周围；雅罗米尔觉得他们在鄙夷地瞧着他；他不敢讲话。 "这些童年时代的照片好极了。我想把它们全部用上。"姑娘说，一边翻看家庭照相簿。 "它们将怎样表现在银幕上呢？"玛曼带着专业上的兴趣问，姑娘使她相信用不着担心。然后她向雅罗米尔解释，最初的连续镜头将仅仅是他那些照片的蒙太奇，伴随着他母亲的话外音回忆。然后镜头将集中在玛曼身上，最后诗人才进入画面：诗人在他出生的房子里，诗人在写作，诗人在花园里散步，最后诗人在开阔的大自然里，他最喜爱的环境中；在乡村一个美丽僻静的地方，他将朗诵一首诗作为影片的结尾（"我的这块可爱的风景假定在哪里呢？"他不快地问。她们回答，他最喜爱的地方当然是希拉格附近富于浪漫气息的地区， 到处都是山冈和荒凉的巉崖。"这不真实！我讨厌那些无聊乏味的岩石。"雅罗米尔说，但是没人认真对待他。） 雅罗米尔一点也不喜欢这个电影脚本，并提议他愿意自己为这个脚本做点什么；他反对道，这个脚本里有太多的琐屑、陈旧的东西（放映一个一岁婴儿的照片真是荒唐！）；他声称知道在这部影片里可以探讨的更有趣的问题；她们要他说得更明确点。他回答说此时此地他还不能讲清楚它，他愿意在某个时候再仔细想一想。 他想不惜一切代价推迟拍摄，但他的努力白费了。玛曼用胳膊搂住他，对她的黑头发合作者说，"他总是给我找麻烦！他从来没有满足……"她戏谑地把自己的脸贴近他的脸。"这不是事实吗？"雅罗米尔没有回答，她又说，"你是我的小捣蛋，承认吧！" 那位拍片姑娘说，一个作者力求尽善尽美是好事，但这次雅罗米尔不是作者。他的母亲和她才是这个电影脚本的作者，她们愿意承担一切责任。雅罗米尔应该允许她们拍摄她们认为合适的影片，正如她们愿意让他写他喜欢的诗歌。 玛曼补充说，雅罗米尔不必担心影片会对他不公正，因为她们俩——拍片姑娘和她本人——都深深地尊敬和喜欢他。她用一种卖弄风情的味道说出这番话，不清楚她是在与他调情，还是在与她新交的朋友调情。