Chapter 16 Chapter 6 The Middle-Aged Man

The first chapter of our story covers fifteen years of Jaromil's life, while the fifth, although equally long, covers only one year.In this book, the speed of time flows is just the opposite of real life: as the years go by, the speed slows down instead. That's because we're viewing Jaromil's story from a lookout we've erected as he lay dying.For us, his childhood is far away, where months and years merge imperceptibly.As he and his mother emerged from the hazy horizon and moved closer and closer to our observation deck, everything gradually became clear, like a highly realistic painting, showing every leaf on every leaf. vein.

Just as your life is defined by the kind of career and marriage you choose, so our novel is defined by the perspective of our observation deck: we can fully see Jaromil and his mother, while other characters only appear when they appear in the We only get a glimpse of the two protagonists when they are in front of them.We have chosen this approach as you have chosen your destiny, and your choices and mine are equally immutable. Yet each one regrets that he cannot live another life.You also want to live all your unrealized possibilities, all your possible lives. (Ah, Xavier who can't do it!) Our books are just like yours.It also aspires to be all the other novels it could have been.

That's why we've been fantasizing about building other lookouts.How about erecting a watchtower in the middle of the painter's life, or in the life of the janitor's son, or in the life of the red-haired girl?After all, what do we really know about these people?We don't know much more than Jaromil the fool, who knows very little about anyone.What kind of novel would it be if we followed the career of the janitor's son, with Jaromil appearing only once or twice in brief episodes about a poet and an old schoolmate?Or we could follow the painter's story and finally learn what he really thought about his dear Maman, whose belly he once used as a canvas.

Man cannot escape his life, but novels may have more freedom.What if we hastily and quietly dismantled our lookout and moved it elsewhere, at least temporarily?Maybe we can move it a long, long way beyond Jaromil's death!Maybe all the way here, even today, almost no one (his mother died a few years ago) still remembers Jaromil. God!Imagine building a lookout so close!Maybe drop by all the poets who sat with Jaromil on the podium in the police auditorium!Where were the poems they recited then?No one recalls these poems anymore, and the author himself will deny having written them.Because they are ashamed, everyone is ashamed...

What is actually left of that distant period?Today, people see those days as a time of political inquests; persecutions, book bans and legal murders.Those of us who remember must testify that it was not only a time of terror but a time of lyricism, a time ruled by the combination of executioners and poets.That wall behind which people are imprisoned is made of poetry.There is also dancing in front of the wall.No, not the dance of the dead!Rather an innocent dance.Innocence comes with a bloody smile. You say, is that a crappy lyrical era?not quite!Novelists who wrote about that era with the blind eyes of believers produced false and unsuccessful works.But the poets who are also blindly combined with that era often leave behind beautiful poems.As we mentioned before, through the magic of poetry, all statements become truths, so long as they are made by the force of passion.Poets evidently feel their passions smoldering and burning.The steam of their fiery affection spread in the sky like a rainbow, a beautiful rainbow across the high walls of the prison...

But no, let's not build our lookout today.We are not concerned with writing about the past, capturing its image in more and more mirrors.We chose that era not because we were interested in it per se, but because it seemed to offer a wonderful trap for capturing Rimbaud and Lermontov, lyricism and youth.What is a novel if not a trap to catch a hero?To hell with the description of that era!We are only interested in a young poet! Therefore, the young man we call Jaromil must not be completely out of our sight.Yes, let us leave our novel for a moment, let us move our vantage point to the end of Jaromil's life, and place it in the heart of a very different character made of very different materials.But let's not put it any further than three years after Jaromil's death. During this time, Jaromil has not been completely forgotten.Let's make a chapter that will relate to the rest of the story as a small hotel relates to a country estate.

The hotel is at the other end of the estate.It is a self-contained building separate from the main house.It may have been sublet, and the tenants of the estate would be perfectly fine without it.However, on a summer day.The smell of the kitchen and the sound of people talking drifted from the manor into the open windows of the hotel... Let us assume that the role of the hotel is played by a man's apartment room: a hall with a clothes closet, a bathroom with a spotless bathtub, a kitchenette littered with dirty dishes, a Great room for living room and bedroom.The room contained a wide sofa, a large mirror, bookshelves on all four walls, several framed paintings (reproductions of ancient paintings and engravings), a coffee table between two armchairs, one facing the roof and Chimney windows.

It is an evening in spring.The owner of the room has just returned home.He opened the duffel bag, took out a pair of wrinkled overalls, and hung them up in the closet.Then he went into the back room, opened the window, and the cool fresh air drifted into the room; the man went into the bathroom, turned on the hot water tap over the bathtub, and began to undress, examining his body with satisfaction; he was in his forties, but since He began to do physical work, and he always felt in good shape; his mind seemed weaker, but his arms and thighs grew stronger. He stretched out in the tub, and used a wooden plank across the tub to use as a makeshift table.A few books lay before him on a wooden board (a queer interest in ancient Greek and Roman authors!);

Suddenly, the doorbell rang.One short beep, two long beeps, and after a short pause, another short beep. He didn't like to be disturbed by uninvited guests, so he arranged a set of signals with his friends and lovers.But whose signal is this? Maybe he's getting old and his memory is fading, he thought ruefully. "Wait a minute!" he yelled, getting out of the tub, drying himself leisurely, putting on his bathrobe, and opening the door. A girl in a thick winter coat stood outside the door. He recognized her immediately and was speechless with astonishment. "They let me go," she said.

"when?" "This morning. I was waiting for you to come back from get off work." He helped her take off her coat—thick, brown, worn—and hung it up on a hanger.He noticed that she was wearing the same outfit as the last time she had seen him, the same coat, the same winter coat.A winter three years ago seemed to throw a chill into this spring afternoon. The girl was also amazed to find that the room hadn't changed, given how much her life had changed in the meantime. "Everything is the same here," she said. "Yes, that is." He pointed to her favorite chair.As soon as she settled down comfortably, he began to barrage her with questions.are you hungry?Are you sure you don't want me to make you a sandwich?Where are you going from here?Are you going to go home?

She told him that she was indeed going home, that she had reached the train station, but decided to see him first. He was still in his bathrobe. "Excuse me," he said, "let me get some clothes on." He went to the hall and closed the door behind him.Before he could get dressed, he picked up the phone and dialed a number; when a woman's voice came through, he explained that something had happened and he couldn't see her that night. He had no obligation to the girl sitting in his room; however, he still did not want her to overhear him, so he kept his voice low.As he spoke, he kept looking at the battered brown coat on the hanger.It fills the air with the sound of nostalgic music. It had been three years since he had last seen her, and five years since they had known each other.He had known many more attractive women, but this girl had some rare qualities.She was about seventeen when he met her, charmingly frank and sexual.She longed to make him happy; within fifteen minutes she understood that he was taboo about love, and without any explanation from him, she complied, visiting him only when he explicitly asked her to (almost every month or so). once). He made no secret of his preference for gay women; during a sexual indulgence, the girl whispered in his ear how she had seduced a strange woman in a bathhouse, and went on to describe how they made love.The story entertained him, and in realizing the improbability of it, he was moved by the girl's passion for trying to please him.Not all girls' love performances are imaginative.She introduced him to some of her girlfriends, who encouraged and organized a series of pleasurable sexual entertainment. She understood that not only was her middle-aged lover not demanding fidelity, but he would feel more secure if his mistress was involved in more serious love affairs elsewhere.So she entertained him innocently and frivolously with accounts of her present and past love affairs, which he found amusing and entertaining. At the moment, she is sitting in an armchair (the man has put on a pair of slacks and a sweater in the meantime)."When I first left the prison, I saw a lot of horses," she said. "Horse? What horse?" She explained that in the morning, when she had just stepped out of the prison gates, some people on horseback were galloping by.They sat high in the saddle, as if they had grown out of these animals to form a superhuman monster.The girl felt small, insignificant.Above her head she heard snorting and laughing, and scared her against the prison wall. "Where have you been since you got out of there?" She went to the tram stop.The sun became very warm and she felt uncomfortable in the heavy coat.She was embarrassed by the stares of passers-by, worried that the tram would be crowded and everyone would open their mouths and stare at her.Fortunately, there was no one at the tram stop but an old woman.What a blessing to find there was only one old woman there. "So you decided to come see me first?" Responsibility dictates that she should go home first to visit her parents.She had gone to the train station to line up at the ticket window, but when it was her turn, she ran away.She was depressed at the thought of going home.She was hungry and bought a falafel.She sat in the park and waited until four o'clock, knowing that he would come home from get off work at this time. "I'm glad you came here first. It's very kind of you to come," he said. "You remember," he continued after a pause, "do you remember what you said? You said you never wanted to see me again in your life?" "That's not true," said the girl. "Yes, it is true." He smiled. "No, it's not!" This is of course true.When she came to see him that day three years ago, he opened the wine cupboard to pour some brandy.The girl shook her head and said. "No, don't pour it for me, I will never drink anything in your room again." He was amazed.The girl continued, "I'm not going to see you again. That's why I'm here today to tell you." He still looked surprised.She told him that she was really in love with the young man she had told him about, and that she had decided not to deceive him again.She comes to ask her middle-aged friend to sympathize with her situation, hoping he won't be angry. Despite his penchant for a colorful sex life, the middle-aged man is largely idyllic, valuing a certain tranquility and order in his adventures.The girl was, it is true, but a timid little star among the stars of his love, but even a star's sudden departure from its proper place in the sky would bring unwelcome disturbances to the harmony of heaven. disorder. Also, he felt misunderstood and hurt.Isn't the girl genuinely happy to have a boy who loves her?Wasn't he the one who wanted her to tell him all about the young man, wasn't he the one who gave her advice on how to win the young man's love?In fact, he was so amused by the young beau that he even saved the chap's poems to the girls.He found these poets disgusting, but he was as interested in them as he was in the rising world around him, which he observed from the comfort of his warm tub. He was willing to protect the young lovers with all the cynical kindness he could muster, and the girl's sudden decision struck him like sheer ingratitude.He found it difficult to restrain himself from letting the girl see his anger.Seeing the displeasure in his face, she spoke many words in justification of her decision; she repeatedly declared that she loved her young man sincerely, and resolved to be absolutely faithful to him. And now, three years later, she was here again, sitting in the same chair, wearing the same clothes, telling him that she had never said anything like that! She is not lying.She's one of those rare people who can't tell the difference between fact and wish, and mistake their moral hopes for facts.Of course, she remembered exactly what she had said to her middle-aged friend; but when she realized she shouldn't have said that, she refused to recall the fact that it really existed. She remembered, of course: she had spent a little longer with her middle-aged companion that afternoon than she had intended, and thus missed her appointment with the young man.The boy felt greatly insulted, and she realized that only an equally serious excuse could appease his anger.Therefore, he made up a story about spending an afternoon with a brother who wanted to defect from the motherland.Naturally, it could not have occurred to her that her young lover would urge her to denounce her brother to the police. So the next day, as soon as she got off work, she ran to her middle-aged friend to ask the bishop how she would describe the row to the young man.He also suggested that she should make the guy feel that he was indirectly her family's saviour, because without his decisive influence, her brother would have carried out his stupid plan and undoubtedly would have been caught at the border, or They may even be shot dead by border guards. "What was the result of your conversation with that young man?" "I never saw him again. I just got back from you when they arrested me. They were waiting for me in front of my house." "And you never had a chance to speak to him again?" "No." "But they must have told you what happened to him..." "No……" "You really don't know?" The middle-aged man asked in surprise. "I don't know anything," replied the girl, shrugging her shoulders as if to show she didn't care either. "He died," said the man, "shortly after they took you away." The girl really didn't know about it.From far, far away, she heard the pitiful words of the young man who wanted to put love and death on the same balance. "Did he kill himself?" she asked in a soft voice, sounding like she was ready to forgive right away. The man smiled. "Oh no, not at all. He just got sick and died. His mother moved away. You'll never find a trace of them in the old villa. But in the cemetery There's a big black tombstone. It's like a great writer's tombstone. There's a poet buried here...these are his mother's words carved on the stone. Under his name, they also carved you show me The epitaph of the past, the epitaph of the one willing to die in fire." They fell silent.The girl pondered the fact that the young man did not commit suicide, but died a very ordinary death.Even his death is turning his back on her.No, she never wanted to see him again after getting out of prison, but she didn't consider the possibility that he was no longer alive.If he ceased to exist, the reason for her three years of captivity ceased to exist, and everything became a nightmare, meaningless and unreal. "Would you like some supper?" he asked, "Come and help me." They went into the kitchen, cut some bread, made ham and falafel, opened a can of sardines, found a bottle of wine. This is the procedure they have followed in the past.It is a comforting feeling for a girl to know that this fixed life is always waiting for her, unchanged and undisturbed, and that she can still enter it quickly.At this moment, she felt that this was the best little bit of life she had ever known. the best?Why? It's a very safe part of life.This man was good to her and never asked for anything; she had nothing to feel guilty about and responsible for; she was always safe with him; it was the kind of safety people feel when they escape their fate for a while; She is as safe as a character in the play, and when the first act is over, there is a break; the other characters take off their masks and become ordinary people chatting casually. The middle-aged man had long felt outside the drama of his life; at the start of the war, he fled to England with his young wife, worked as a pilot against the Germans, and during an air raid on London In it he lost his wife.After returning home, he decided to stay in the army and served at exactly the same time as Jaromil decided to study political science, but his superiors thought that he was too closely related to capitalist Britain, and he was not very reliable politically. Serve in the people's army.So he goes to work in a factory, turning his back on history and its theatrical performances, on his own destiny.He was completely absorbed in himself, in his irresponsible pleasure-seeking, and in his books. The girl had come to say goodbye to him three years ago, because he had offered her only one episode, while the young man was offering her his whole life.Here she is, munching on a ham sandwich and sipping wine, glad that her middle-aged friend volunteered her intermission, gradually wrapping herself in blissful tranquility. She was rested and would love to have a conversation. With bread crumbs on the empty plate and a half-empty wine bottle, she recounted her experience in prison in detail, speaking of her fellow prisoners and guards, in a nonchalant, unsympathetic tone.As is her habit, she dwells on details that she finds interesting, connecting them in an illogical but delightful narrative flow. But this time the way she talked was a little strange.Often, her conversations go in circles innocently but still end up getting to the heart of the matter, however.This time, her words always revolved around the core, as if trying to hide it. But what is this core?The middle-aged man finally understood.He asked, "How is your brother?" "I have no idea……" "Did they let him go?" "No……" Only now did he understand why the girl ran away from the ticket gate, why she was so afraid of going home.Not only was she an innocent victim, she was a sinner who brought disaster to her brother and her entire family.He could imagine the methods the interrogators had used to force a confession from her, how she had entangled herself in a new, more destructive trap of suspicion in order to escape her tormentors.How was she going to explain to her family that it wasn't she who had turned on her brother, but some mysterious young man who wasn't even alive anymore? The girl was silent, and her middle-aged friend couldn't help feeling pity. "Don't go home today. Wait. You've got plenty of time. You've got to think it all through. You can stay with me if you want." He put his hand on her cheek.He didn't touch her, he just pressed his hands gently and tenderly against her skin. This action was so affectionate, the girl immediately burst into tears. Since his wife died (he loved her very much), he doesn't care about women's tears.He dreaded them as much as the danger that women would compel him to take an active part in the drama of their lives.He saw tears as tendrils trying to entrap him, drag him out of his idyllic state of unfate, and he avoided them with disgust. That's why he was taken aback when his palm touched wet tears.He was even more startled to discover that he was completely powerless to resist their gut-wrenching power at the moment.This time, he knew they were not tears of love shed on him, that they were not deceit, blackmail, or show-off.They are pure and simple, flowing from a girl's eyes as naturally as sorrow or joy flows from a person's body.He had no shield against their innocence, and his soul was deeply moved. He thought of the whole time he had been with this girl, they had never hurt each other.They always think about each other and give each other short-term happiness.They are satisfied.There is no need to blame.He had taken special satisfaction in doing everything possible to free the girl when she was arrested. He lifted her from the chair, wiped her tear-stained face with his fingers, and hugged her tenderly. Somewhere at the side of the stage, in a story we left three years ago, death has been waiting impatiently.At this moment, the bones of the dead were casting a long shadow over the scene of the middle-aged man and his young companion, and the sudden darkness chilled the warm and cozy room. The man was holding her tenderly, but she curled up motionless in his arms. What does this crouching mean? She was giving herself to him.She had placed herself in his arms and was willing to remain there. But curling up means she's not opening up to him!She has surrendered herself, but she remains closed.Her shoulders were brought together to cover her breasts, her head was not turned toward his, but rested on his chest.She was peering into the dark of his sweater.She sealed herself securely to him, protected in his embrace, as in a steel safe. He lifted her downcast, tear-wet face and began to kiss her.He acts out of sympathy rather than sensual stimulation, but the situation often produces a cascade of involuntary, inescapable reactions.He tried unsuccessfully to pry her mouth open with his tongue; her lips were tightly shut and refused to reciprocate. Strangely enough, the less he could get a response from her, the stronger the wave of sympathy that overwhelmed him, and he began to realize that the soul of the girl in his arms had been withdrawn from her body.The wound of this bloody excision has not yet healed. He touched her poor, bony body.The falling darkness obliterated all distinct outlines, deprived their bodies of boundaries and shapes, and his waves of sympathy grew, all the while feeling inside his shell that he was able to love her physically! This was completely unexpected.He felt lust without lust, he excited because of excitement!Maybe it was just pure benevolence turned into a physical awakening by some mysterious metamorphosis. The excitement came so suddenly, it was unbelievable, and he was full of passion.He caressed her body eagerly, trying to unbutton her dress. She struggled to break free. "No, no! Please don't! I don't want it!" Since words alone didn't seem to be able to stop him, she broke free from his arms and retreated to a corner of the room. "Why is that? What's wrong with you?" he asked. She leaned against the wall without saying a word. He walked up to her and stroked her cheek. "Okay, okay. You're not afraid of me, are you? Tell me, what's the matter? What happened to you?" She stood in the corner, speechless, unable to find words.Before her eyes, she saw again the horses passing the prison gates, the tall, powerful animals paired with their riders to form a proud whole.She was so small, so pitiful, compared with their physical perfection, that she longed to merge with anything near her, with a tree trunk or a wall, in order to hide in their obscurity. "What's wrong with you?" he said again. "I shouldn't be here. I wish you were old. Very old. An old woman. Or an old man." He stroked her face silently, then asked her to make his bed (the room was already dark).They lay close together on the wide sofa, and he spoke to her in a soft, comforting voice that he hadn't spoken to anyone in years. The craving for sex was gone entirely, but he was filled with a tender sympathy so deep and so intense that he couldn't be himself.He lit a lamp and stared at the girl. She lay on her back, tense, embarrassed, staring intently at the ceiling.what happened to herWhat did they do to her?Beat her?scare her?torture her? he does not know.The girl was silent, and he gently stroked her hair, her forehead, her cheek. He stroked her for a long time until he felt that the fear in her eyes seemed to be dispelling. He stroked her for a long time until she closed her eyes. The windows of the room were open, letting in the cool spring air.The room was plunged into darkness again, and the middle-aged man lay motionless beside the girl.He listened to her breathing, her restless tossing and turning, and when he thought she had fallen asleep, he touched her arm lightly, and in her new period of sorrowful freedom he was able to offer her the first night's rest. , which makes him happy. The hotel we liken this chapter of the novel to also has an open window through which we can still hear the voices of the novel we left not so long ago.Do you hear Death's impatient stamping in the distance?Let it wait, we're still in this house, in another novel, in another story. Another story?No, not really.The episode we have described in the life of the middle-aged man and girl is only a pause in the story, not the story itself.Their encounter hardly involved them in an adventure.It was just a brief pause the man gave her before waiting for the girl's pain. In our novel, too, this part is merely a serene interlude in which an unnamed man unexpectedly lights a merciful lamp, allowing us to Stare at it for a few more seconds, that lamp of stillness, lamp of kindness...