Markéta Hejkalová
Basic info | Published works: | Texts in foreign languages
Basic Info Date and Place of Birth: 29. 02. 1960 in Prague, Czech Republic
Contact Adress: Dolni 153, 580 01 Havlickuv Brod, Czech Republic
e-mail marketa@hejkal.cz, mobile phone + 420 777 616 158
language knowledge: Finnish, English, Russian, German
1979 - 1984 studied Finnish and Russian language and literature, Faculty of Arts, Charles University, Prague,
1984 - 1990 worked as Editor in State-Owned Publishing House
1988 - got married, husband Martin Hejkal
1988 - has published the first story in anthology of young writers
1990 - 1992 editor in the journal World Literature
1991 - has founded own Autumn Book Fair in Havlickuv Brod, whuch became the second largest Book Fair in Czech republic
1994 - together with her husband founded „family business“ Hejkal Publishing House, untill now we have published more than 50 books, among them my
own
1996 - 1999 worked for Czech Embassy in Helsinki, Finland, as Cultural Attaché and Consul
2004 - 2005 teached Finnish language and Literature, Masaryk University, Brno
2006 - elected as a member of board of Czech Centre of Pen International – Vicepresident and Head of the Writers in Prison Committee
2009 - worked for the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Czech Republic during the Czech Presidency of EU
Published works:
Mimo mysu (Outside the cap), story in the anthology of young writers Zelená sedma (Green Seven), Mladá Fronta Publishers 1988 (as Markéta
Pražáková)
Šli myšáci do světa (Two mice on the worldjourney), book for children, Hejkal Publishing and Euromedia - Knižní klub, 1994 (as Markéta
Pražáková)
Ženy a cizinci na konci tisíciletí (Women and foreigners in the end of the millenium),novel, Hejkal Publishing, 2002
Finsko - Stručná historie států (Finland - Short history of states), non-fiction, Libri Publishing, 2003
Vždycky jedna noc (It´s allways just one night), novel, Hejkal Publishing, 2004, actually translated into Russian to be published by Globus
Publishers Sankt Petersburg
Slepičí lásky (The loves of hens), novel, Hejkal Publishing, 2006, extract from this novel was broadcasted by Croatian Radio)
U nás v Evropě (Our home Europe), non-fiction, Edice ČT (Publishing house of Czech Television), 2006
Fin Mika Waltari (Finn Mika Waltari), non-fiction, Hejkal Publishing, 2007
Kouzelník z Pekingu (The magician from Beijing), novel, Hejkal Publishing, 2008
Mika Waltari, the Finn (into English translated by Gerald Turner, WSOY 2008)
short stories in anthologies
translations of Finnish fiction (Mika Waltari, Arto Paasilinna, Leena Lehtolainen)
Texts in foreign languages
The Magician from Beijing
Is there any point dragging all those boxes upstairs, Tomáš Novák thought to himself. It was a Saturday afternoon at
the end of the holidays and the warm breeze of an Indian summer wafted in from the garden through the small cellar window. The sunlight was so
bright that if he put a stool under the window it would be light enough for him to read or at least sort out some of the papers, and decide what
to burn straight away and what to take upstairs for Gran to read. If he took her the whole box she wouldn’t throw away a single scrap of paper
and maybe she wouldn’t read any of it and she’d force him to take everything to that
Vránová woman. Or did she really think he’d find something of importance in the cellar? He couldn’t say – he’d never really managed to fathom his
grandmother out, but he also suspected that she was only bluffing so as to get him to clean out the cellar. Just lately his grandmother seemed to be
more interested in supermarket leaflets than in some dusty old papers.
He dragged two boxes under the window. He sat down on one of them, opened the other and delved into the papers. This is a job that calls for a
cup of coffee and cig, and maybe an armchair, he thought to himself. Maybe there was some sense in Gran’s talk about what could be done with the
cellar. He cast his gaze around him. The cellar had almost been cleared and it looked quite cosy on a bright and warm afternoon. If he could afford
it... If he sold the house he’d have money enough, but Gran didn’t even want to hear about it, and the house still belonged to her
He pulled a pile of papers out of the box. They were in an old thick cellophane bag, held together by a perished rubber band that fell apart as
soon as he touched it. Guarantee certificates: Calex fridge, Romo spin dryer, mixer, Remoska... all of them long out of date. In the bin! He tipped
the box out onto the floor and tossed the guarantees with the perished rubber band into it. It’ll all be chucked away anyway. Faded blue exercise
books. School year 1984 - 85. They could easily be his own, but they weren’t: Dominika Vránová, 3A. Czech, homeland studies... They must be from
that grand-daughter, but she’s got a different name now: Holubová. He was surprised to discover that Zdena Vránová’s grand-daughter was in his own
age-group. He had seen her twice at the court hearing and had thought her much older - the auntie type. It crossed his mind, nevertheless, whether
he oughtn’t to return the exercise books to her, seeing she had saved them for over twenty years. But precisely because she’d saved them for over
twenty years, she could have easily taking them with her when she moved, he decided, and tossed the exercise books into the rubbish box. Then he
gathered up some old yellowed newspapers from the floor. He scanned the titles with his eyes: the Fourth Writers’ Congress, the Renewal Process,
Truth about the Miracle at Číhošť, Vengeance for the Nineteen-Fifties – that was underlined in red for some unknown reason, but Tomáš had no wish to
discover why; it must have been at the end of the sixties. Yes, of course, 4 June 1968, he noted, glancing at the date. But Tomáš had not the
slightest interest in that famed year of ’68, and he turfed all the newspapers into the box. Newspapers now occupied most of the space in the box.
There was not much more on the floor to sort, just a shoe box. Surprisingly there was nothing tied round it so it’s lid had come off and it was
tipped over onto its side. Tomáš picked up one of several little stacks of green postal order slips, carefully bound with an elastic band. On all of
the slips the sum was the same: twenty-five crowns, and so also was the sender: Zdena Vránová, North Street, Spořilov, Prague 4, and the addressee:
Vlasta Kryštůfková. The first slip bore the date July 1954, and the rest of them followed in sequence month by month until May 1960. In June 1960
the name of the addressee changed to: František Kryštůfek, and soon after that there was also a new address: instead of the village in the highlands
it was now their flat in Prague. In 1972 the amount suddenly soared to two hundred and seventy crowns over ten times as much.
It’s rent!, Tomáš realized. It must be the rent that Zdena Vránová paid for this house. Twenty-five crowns? These days that would be the fee for
the transaction. He put the ten stacks aside. He’d take it to Gran just in case she ever felt like feeling sorry for Zdena.
He suddenly felt peculiar sitting there with those slips. Gran received twenty-five crowns a month for that house in Prague she used to call it
a “cottage” while she herself was living in one dismal room in a dilapidated monastery in the highlands, and here he was wondering how much he
should pay for an air ticket to China. He stood up and stretched. He had been born at a much better time.
If only he could get enough cash! It turned out that Gran thought flights to China cost five thousand crowns and she didn’t want to give him more
for the trip.
He couldn’t get that Finnish travel agency out of his head. When he started looking for air tickets on the internet he had no luck at first and
then he came across this one out of the blue. It offered air tickets from Helsinki to Beijing for just one hundred euros.
That’s bullshit, he thought, dismissing it, some con trick: they’ll have just one ticket at that price and it’ll have been sold long ago. But he
couldn’t resist it. He emailed the agency (the website did not show any other contact, either phone number or address – that fact alone was
suspicious, besides which the email suffix was the German“.de” instead of the Finnish “.fi”) and asked them whether they would sell him a ticket
from Prague to Beijing via Helsinki and then back from Shanghai. Three hundred and five euros, some Iris no surname wrote to him by return, but
the flight would be from Vienna, not Prague. There was another snag too: the ticket would have to be paid for straight away, by credit card over the
internet, and the return ticket could be picked up only after he reached Shanghai, at No 41 Zhou Zheng Street, and in this case there was only the
address and no email or telephone. This was probably to prevent him from checking whether there really was a travel bureau at that address. If Hana
was in Shanghai he would ask her to check it out. Maybe she knew someone in Shanghai... No! It was an obvious con – there was no point wasting any
time on it – heaven knows if he’d even get the outward bound ticket when he had paid; it was supposed to be collected at the airport. On the other
hand, it would save him at least fifteen thousand crowns... or he could lose ten. He had till midnight to make up his mind – that was something else
suspicious: a reservation that expired at midnight Saturday, but Iris (that’s if the person who had emailed him really was called Iris) made no
effort to explain it. Yes, 12 midnight on Saturday, she confirmed when he asked her. But that in itself wasn’t so suspicious: maybe the travel
agency was in Shanghai and operated on Sundays too...
Whatever happened he would have to buy a ticket by the following week at the latest. Until he had a ticket he couldn’t apply for a visa, and he
wanted to leave by 8th September at the latest, in order to be back by the 24th and take Gran to her high school reunion. He’d promised
her it, as she reminded him every day.
Nothing risked, nothing gained, he said to himself, trying out his favourite slogan. He would often say it, and it often proved right. It had
also been on the off chance that he’d written to Hana to say he’d come and visit her, yet she hadn’t invited him and it took her a long time to
reply it was several weeks later that she finally replied, telling him to come and saying she was looking forward to seeing him. Tomáš was about
to stand up and go straight to his room and book his ticket on line via Finland but then decided to sort out the last two boxes first. There were
still ten hours to go before midnight
He grabbed a shoe box full of small black-and-white photos the family around the Christmas tree, some child in a garden – that’s actually our
house, he realised; that might interest Gran. The photos captured his attention too and he started to look through them. These old photos will be
something like a bonus for Gran on top of those twenty-five-crown rent slips. Tomáš was intrigued to find that the house was just like it was on
those fifty-year-old photos, and the question suddenly crossed his mind whether this was good or bad – bad probably; maybe instead of a trip to
China he should start to do something with the cottage, but the question immediately evaporated and in its place came the answer: he would do
something with it – but not until he returned from China. His return from China could prove quite a good crossroads in respect of some other matters
too.
There were only a couple of photos of the house, most of them from elsewhere: children outside a tent, a married couple in front of some castle;
ones like that he threw straight in the rubbish. At the bottom of the shoebox lay a yellowing sheet of paper folded in four.
“Dear Vlasta”, he caught sight of the salutation and started to read with curiosity; it didn’t particularly bother him that the addressee,
Dear Vlasta, was taking a nap in the bedroom over his head.
Helsinki, 25th November 1955
Dear Vlasta,
It’s ages since I’ve heard anything about how you are or how your husband is, or whether you have children. I have a son called Risto.
He’ll be four this summer. He was born just at the time of the splendid Olympics. I didn’t write to you for a long time because my husband Henry was
ill. I have only just got round to writing and I have to tell you the sad news that Henry died. You knew Henry, didn’t you, you and your husband
František. Henry fell ill a year ago. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, he became dizzy as he was walking along the street and he collapsed. They
discovered he had a brain tumour. His parents are both dead, so I’m left all on my own here to sort everything out. I won’t find a decent job
because my Finnish isn’t good enough for me to find work as a teacher. I do dish washing at the school canteen, but I’m glad to have the job because
Henry left me no money.
You were always my best friend, Vlasta, so I’m making so bold as to write and ask your advice and the advice of your husband František. Should I
return home to Czechoslovakia? Mum would be really pleased. She never wanted me to marry Henry and go off into the world with him. I’m a bit
apprehensive about it. Sometimes I hear on the radio that things over there are marvellous, but then I read something totally different in the
newspapers. I don’t understand it properly and there is no one for me to ask. But at the same time I think more and more that I might be simply
wasting my life here and that I ought to return home and teach children. It’s why we studied, after all. Write to me, please, and tell me what you
and your husband František think. It goes without saying that you’re to write me the truth. We always told each other the truth, after all.
Give my best regards to your husband and my greetings to Zdena. I have heard nothing about her either, whether she’s married or not. I want to
hear all the news.
My address is Albertinkatu 25B, Helsinki, Finland. This is where I live. Henry left me a big flat near the city centre. It’s not a particularly
good part of town but I can see the sea and islands from the window. But I expect I’d find somewhere to live back home, wouldn’t I?
Lots of love
Your friend Andula
P.S. When you write the address don’t forget my name is Anna Saarinen.
I’ve found something of real significance, Tomáš realised, as soon as he’d finished the letter, albeit only a few pieces of the puzzle were
flitting around in his head so far. By 1955 Gran wasn’t living here anymore. It was the wicked Zdena. But why did the nice Andula also write
about the wicked Zdena did she know her too? And seeing that the letter is here does this mean that Gran never received it and she didn’t
reply to that Andula? And wasn’t that Andula a bit dopey, rather than nice, if she wanted to return to Czechoslovakia in the nineteen-fifties?
Maybe Gran will be pleased with him after all. Not only had he cleared out the cellar but he had also found a real treasure in it: a letter more
than fifty years old. He dashed to the staircase, but stopped in his tracks. If he bought that ticket to China from the Finnish travel agency he’d
fly via Helsinki, and on the way home he would have a whole day to spend there. He could try to find the address – dopey Andula wrote that it was
near the city centre and if I’m lucky I’ll find her: Anna Saarinen. Now that would be a proper gift for Gran! He folded the letter up again. He
would put it safely in his wallet and take it with him. Or he’d photocopy it at work on Monday to be on the safe side.
Gran was still asleep. Tomáš walked briskly through the front hall to his bedroom. He switched on his laptop, went online and booked a ticket
from Vienna to Beijing, returning from Shanghai via Helsinki.
“My flight gets in next week on Thursday 8th September at 11. 30,” he mailed Hana to Beijing. So now he could call Klára, maybe. Or maybe not. He
yawned. He suddenly felt tired and sleepy, as if he had been earned the fifteen thousand plus crowns he’d saved on the ticket with his own hands
through hard work. He stretched out on the bed and fell asleep contentedly. Rest is vital before taking a long journey.
Translated from Czech into English by Gerald Turner
Hens´ Loves
Slovenian: Kokošje ljubezni
To je mogoče zadnja priložnost za otroka.
Ali pa ne, začela je sanjariti. Če se vse dobro izteče, ima lahko s Honzo še več otrok. Dva ali tri, vsi lahko stanujejo v hiši zunaj
Prage. V elegantnem majhnem avtu, morda v novem reanultu, o katerem nenehno govori očka, jih bo vozila v vrtec in na plavanje. Če se seveda Honza
loči, se opraviči soprogi in volilcem in se oženi s Petro.
Tudi veliko stanovanje v središču Londona bi zadoščalo, če bi Petra zmagala na natečaju in dobila službo v Londonu. Vsako jutro bi dala napotke
varuški in se v elegantnem avtu srednje velikosti , mogoče v chryslerju, odpeljala v urad.
Ta drugi scenarij si je lažje zamišljala brez Honze. Gotovo bi bila ljubosumna zaradi varuške, čeprav je bržda smešno, da bi bila ljubosum na
moškega, ki je od nje dvajset let starejši. Ko bo ta otrok odšel na univerzo, bo Honza že zdavnaj v pokoju – ali pa bo že umrl. Ampak to je tako
daleč, otrok se še niti ni rodil.
Bodočnost je ponujala dobre variante, nemara še boljše. Nobena ni bila tako izrazito slaba. V tisti, ki je bila slabša, se Honza ne bo ločil in
ju bo z otrokom le obiskoval v njunem stanovanju. A v še slabši varianti ju ne bo niti obiskoval – ampak svet zato ne bo propadel, saj bo Petra
lahko še imela otroke, mogoče s človekom, ki ga bo spoznala v Londonu. In ki bo doživel trenutek, ko pojdejo otroci na fakulteto. Zagotovo pa ne bo
več sama. V vsakem slučaju ponoči nekoliko let ne bom več sama, je pomislila, da bi se končno začela veseliti in je ne bo več mučilo, ali bo novico
o otroku sporočila Honzi s SMS sporočilom ali po telefonu ali osebno, staršem pa na črpalki ali v avtu ali pred krematorijem. To je pravzaprav
nepomembno.
»Tu ne izgleda slabo. Ustavi, zajtrkovali bomo!« je spet spregovorila mama, ko so na dolgi vzpetini zagledali reklamo za novo črpalko. Avtocesta
se je razširila še na tretji pas. Tovornjak, ki jim je že dlje vsiljeval počasno vožnjo, se je umaknil na desno, na odstavni pas in vsi Peterkovi so
lahko videli, da v kletkah z rešetkami vozi tisoč kokoši, morda celo več. Na prehitevalnem pasu pa so drug za drugim švigali mimo njihovega peugota
večji avtomobili.
»No, prav!« se je nehal upirati oče. Živa meja, ki bi morala črpalko oddvojiti od okolice, še ni bila zrasla in ni skrivala pogleda na pokrajino.
Oče se je razgledoval, kot da bi bil presenečen, ker tik ob ob avtocesti vidi polje, niz gozdnatih gričev, stavbe, značilne za majhna mesta, zvonik
cerkve, pokrajino, ki živi svoje življenje, medtem ko skoznjo s hitrostjo blaznežev divjajo neskončne kolone proti Pragi, v megalopolis, Tudi mati
se ni spomnila, da je bila že nekajkrat tukaj, da je v bližini pečina nad reko.
Nekoč je bila na tem mestu vas, ljudem, ki so živeli v njej, je počasi mineval čas, pečina nad reko jih je ščitila, a ne povsem. Včasih so v vas
z veliko hitrostjo pridrveli vojaki in jezdeci iz oddaljenih megalopolisov, enega bi ubili, drugega odvlekli s seboj. Vse dotlej, dokler niso bili
napadalci številni in se vas drugo jutro ni zbudila v zarjo dneva, ki bi lahko prinesel marsikaj, kajti večer naj bi se spustil šele čez mnogo let.
Vasi noben dan ni prinesel ničesar več, malone da se je spojila z gozdnato pokrajino, kjer je čas neskončen in se ne deli na jutro, poldan in
večer. Skoraj, a ne povsem. Ostala je cerkev, ki so jo le redko odprli za javnost, za romanje ali kadar je kdo umrl, ker je bilo zraven cerkve
pokopališče, kjer so na številnih grobovih sedeli debelušni angelci in si zamišljeni z rokami podpirali glavo. Zdeli so se kot ljubi angeli varuhi,
pa so bili v resnici angeli smrti ali pa so nemara o tem razmišljali.
Oče se je iztrgal iz misli. Iz kavarnice je prišlo nekaj moških, oblečenih v ponošenih delovnih oblačilih. Napotili so se k umazanemu minibusu, s
katerega se je luščila barva. Zdelo se je, da ne bodo prišli daleč. Ukrajinci, je pomislil oče, in res, na avtu so bile ukrajinske tablice.
Pohitel je za ženo Kvjeto in hčerko Petro. S Kvjeto je bilo zadnji čas nevzdržno. In Petra. Res ni normalno, da petintridesetletna ženska, zdrava
in normalna, preživlja dopust z očetom in mamo na vikendu, da nima nikogar in razmišlja samo o karieri in vsakršnih cunjicah, ki bi jih
dvajsetletnica, ki ima vsaj malo pameti, ne oblekla. Oče Peterka ni mogel doumeti, da je tako končala njegova edinka, njegova čudovita punčka. Vsake
toliko se je razjezil nanjo in na moške okoli nje, ker je ni nihče našel in oženil in ji napravil kup otrok.
Pogreb ženine tete mu je ponudil beg. Lahko bi prekinil dopust, ostal v Pragi in se vrnil na delo. V dveh dneh bi v pisarni podelal vse zaostanke
in bolj ko se je bližala ta možnost, toliko manj ga je imelo, da bi zapustil vikend na meji divje Visočine in zgodovinskega, tisočletnega srednje
češkega kraja, zapustil brezčasno pokrajino in dopustil, da ga tok avtoceste odvleče nazaj v vsakdanje življenje. Slutil je, da bi ga lahko v
pisarni že čakala odpoved. Vso pomlad so govorili le o tem, da se bo zamenjal lastnik. Niti zamisliti si ni mogel tega trenutka. Odšel bo ponosno, o
tem ni bilo dvoma – ampak kam?
»Škoda, ker moramo v Prago«, je rekla Kvjeta, ko je sedel k njima in s svojega pladnja postavila predenj kavo in krof.
» Ni nam treba,« se je nasmehnil, »pravzaprav zdaj moramo, na večer pa se bomo vrnili.«
»Hočeš reči, da boš ostal v Pragi?« Kvjeta se je očitno tako razveselila, da ga je ganila in jo je pobožal po roki.
»Nekaj vama moram povedati«, ju je prekinila Petra, kakor da noče biti izključena iz njune skupnosti. »Pravzaprav sem vama hotela to povedati na
vikendu, zato sem tudi prišla, ampak ...« Zdaj ji je bilo žal, da jima tega ni povedala nekega večera ali pozno popoldne na vikendu, tako bi jo
lahko spraševala vso noč, žal ji je bilo, da jima bo to povedala na bencinski črpalki, med kratkim postankom za kavo.
»Se možiš?« je hitro vprašala mama, vendar z negotovim upanjem v glasu.
» 0 tem nisem prepričana«, je rekla Petra in zoprno ji je bilo, a se je vendar odločila, da pove: »Ne vem, ali se bom omožila, otroka pa bom
dobila!«
Mama je še naprej mešala kako, oče je še naprej jedel krof, kakor bi jima ne razodela ene od najbolj pomembnih stvari v življenju. Sem jima res
rekla, ali sem storila to samo v mislih, je podvomila Petra.
»S kom boš imela otroka?« je naposled vprašal oče.
»To niti ni tako pomembno«, se je hotela izmotati Petra. Zdaj ji je bilo že žal, da ni najprej povedala Honzi. Na nek način je bila nepoštena do
njega.
»Važno je«, je resno rekel oče in čudno pogledal Petro, kakor da je tujka, neznanka.
»Petrca«, jo je mama pobožala po glavi, kakor da je Petra spet majhna deklic, »ampak saj ne boš odpravila, kajne da ne?« je vprašala in v njenem
glasu je bilo slišati strah.
»Kaj pa ti je, mama?« je Petra izbuljila oči. » Neskončno se veselim.«
Seveda me zanima, s kom bo imela otroka, ali se bo poročila in kje bo živela, kako si vse skupaj predstavlja, je v sebi odgovarjala Kvjeta
Peterkova, čuteč, da jo gleda mož, a zdaj je ne bom spraševala, nočem, da ta pomembna novica kar tako zdrsne mimo in izgine. Nočem, da bi bilo kot s
teto – umrla je, zdaj jo bodo pokopali, glavno je, da bo vse tako kot prej, da se ničesar ne spremeni. Ko se rodi otrok, se bo vse spremenilo. Petri
bom pomagala pri otroku, sama ne bo zmogla. Potrebna bom, babica bom, nič več se ne bom izgubljala v čudnih premišljevanjih.
»S kom pričakuješ otroka, Petrca?« je konkretno vprašala mama, da ne bi zdrsnila v brezno čudnih misli.
»Ne poznate ga!« je Petra počasi odmahnila z roko, kakor da bi jo starša vprašala, s kom pojde zvečer v kino, nato pa se je zbala te lahkotnosti.
»Pa ga bova vsaj spoznala?« je prav tako lahkotno vprašala mama, kakor da je bodoči oče samo nepomembni bonus ob dosti bolj pomembnem bodočem
otroku.
»Mogoče ga celo poznata!« je rekla Petra, globoko vdihnila in razkrila veliko skrivnost. »Jan Bina.«
Starša sta še naprej vprašujoče strmela vanjo. Petra se ni čudila. Honza ni bil poslanec, ki bi se velikokrat pojavljal v medijih. Njegova
ločitev ne bo škandal, pa tudi poroke ne bo na naslovnicah rumenega tiska, seveda, če si bosta sledila ločitev in nova poroka.
»Menda ne misliš na tistega poslanca, Petrca?« je oprezno zazvenelo iz materinih ust. »On je najinih let«, je rekla žalostno in ni dodala, da bi
onadva nikoli ne glasovala za njegovo stranko, češ, da zapravlja energijo samo za nepomembne stvari.
»Mislim«, je tiho rekla Petra.
»Iti moramo, če hočemo na pogreb«, je vstal oče. Velika novica je bila izgovorjena, spet se vse vrača v stare kolesnice, otrok se bo rodil v
prosincu, ampak zdaj morajo pravi čas priti na pogreb.
»Poglejta, ovce!« se je razgledovala mama, ko so se približali avtu. »Ali snemajo kakšno reklamo?« se je nasmejala ob idiličnem prizoru: 10 belih
ovca na livadi, jutranja megla je že zdavnaj izpuhtela, sonce je veselo sijalo in začenjal se je vroč poletni dan.
Odpeljali so se z bencinske črpalke. Avtocesta je bila nenavadno prazna. Nikogar jim ni bilo treba prehiteti, njihov stari peugeot pa ni nikogar
želel pustiti ta seboj. Na obzorju ni bilo niti enega tovornjaka.
»Gotovo se je zgodila kakšna nesreča, ko ni nikogar«, se je polglasno čudil oče, a žena in hči mu nista odgovorili. Petra je premišljevala, ali
bi morala radostno novico povedati staršem na drug način ali ob drugačnem trenutku. Ali ju ne zanima, da je oženjen, da je samo leto dni mlajši od
mame, da ima vnukinjo?
Počasi se je polotil obup, da tudi Honzi ne bo povedala na pravi način, tako, da se vse spremeni. Mogoče mu je sploh ne bo mogla povedati, ker se
ne bo oglasil po telefonu, ne bo odgovoril na SMS. Ona pa ne bo zmagala na natečaju za London, čez nekaj mesecev ji poteče odločba o najemu
stanovanja in ponižno se bo z otrokom vred morala vrniti k staršem. Mar sem pozabila, da bodočnost ponuja le dobre variante ali pa še boljše, je v
mislih okarala samo sebe. Tisti hip je zazvonil mobi. Kot za nagrado. Kaj moram reči, jo je prešinilo. Da pričakujem otroka? Šele takrat je
nejeverno pogledala tujo številko in se predstavila z imenom in priimkom kot na ministrstvu. »Petra Peterkova.«
Promet na avtocesti se je gostil. Prehitevali so stari, obtolčeni minibus. Z naporom se je pred njimi vzpenjal v hrib, a ni zavozil na počasnejši
pas.
»To so gotovo tisti Ukrajinci s črpalke!« je poudaril oče, a tudi tokrat mu ni nihče odgovoril.
Petra je še vedno telefonirala. Natančneje povedano, držala je mobi na ušesu in začudena poslušala.
»Mama, sta dobila morda kakšno pismo?«
»Ja, dobila«, je strahoma rekla mama »Še pred dopustom, ampak pozabila sem nanj, je kaj važnega?«
»Danes imam srečanje s kolegicami s fakultete«, je rekla Petra
oklevajoče, »ampak ne v Pragi, tu nekje v bližini ...« S pričakovanjem se je zagledala v očeta. Pravzaprav bi jo na vikendu, kjer bi moralo biti
srečanje, lahko odložil nazaj grede od pogreba. Ampak oče ji tega ni ponudil.
»No, bomo pripravili svatbo?« je rekel, kakor da ne ve, da je najprej treba pripraviti ločitev.
»Poklicala ga bom in vprašala«, se je nasmejala Petra. Zakaj me kar naprej nekaj skrbi? Spet je izvlekla mobi in poklicala Honzovo številko.
»Počakaj malo«, jo je prekinil oče in brž pojačal glasnost, kakor da so radijske novice pomembnejše od svatbe. Mama je zarotniško pogledala Petro
in zavila oči. Kar je bilo najboljše, je bilo to, da ni šlo za novice o prometu »... trenutno stopa v veljavo zapora o uvozu perutnine, perja in
ptic«, je bilo slišati iz radia. Podobne novice so se ponavljale tako pogosto, da se nihče več ni menil zanje, zato tudi družine Peterka ni zanimalo
odkod in kam se ne smejo uvažati žive niti mrtve ptice.
Translated from Czech into Slovenian by Alenka Bole Vrabec
Croatian: Kokošje ljubavi
"Poslije nekoliko kišnih tjedana, očekuje nas iznenađujuće vedar i vruć ljetni dan", završila je prognoza vremena, ali nitko ju nije
shvatio ozbiljno – topli su se dani u ovogodišnjem čudnom ljetu već nekoliko puta približavali, ali uvijek su ostali negdje drugdje. Jutro na
početku srpnja više je podsjećalo na jesen nego na ljeto. No prava jesenska jutra, s maglom, mrakom i snijegom, još su bila daleko.
Obitelj Peterka se nakon jutarnjeg meteža oko priprema napokon smjestila u auto.
"Znam da nam se ne žuri", rekao je otac zadovoljno. Po neuređenom poljskom putu s duboko utisnutim kolotečinama oprezno se spustio do ceste. "Ali
kad krenemo ovako rano, ima nade da ćemo stići. A moramo se i presvući", dodao je kad su se provezli kroz gradić i krenuli prema autoputu.
"Pa što! Pokopali bi je bez nas", rekla je majka, a otac naprijed i Petra otraga zakolutali su očima.
"Nemoj opet počinjati," zamolio je otac, "pa to je bila tvoja teta."
"Ma znam ja da moramo ići", rekla je začudo majka, a onda je, što je bilo još čudnije, pomilovala oca po ruci. U autu je gotovo zavladala ugodna
atmosfera i razumijevanje, prije nego što je majka dodala: "Njoj je ionako svejedno. Zbog nje pogreb nisu ni trebali organizirati, samo što to Mirka
ne bi podnijela, što bi ljudi rekli..."
"Što ti je?" obratio joj se otac, više ne pomirljivo. Očito se pripremala jedna od mnogih svađa, na koje se Petra tijekom pet dana s roditeljima
već navikla. Činilo se da ni majka ni otac svoje neprestano prepiranje gotovo ne primjećuju.
Peterke su nekoć bili tipična mlada obitelj. Kad su dobili djevojčicu, dali su joj ime Petra, da bi jednom mogla imati sjajan monogram: PP, Petra
Peterková. Djevojčica je narasla. Petra je imala trideset pet godina. Na prvi bi je pogled svatko smatrao mlađom. Duga plava kosa gotovo do struka,
široka šarena suknja s nekoliko nepravilnih volana, koju je prošli tjedan kupila u butiku kao modni novitet i sjajna bijela majica sa širokim,
zvonastim rukavima. Tek bi pogled izbliza otkrio da Petra više nije šašavo odjevena bucmasta djevojka koju čeka matura, a poslije nje život. Ne,
nije imala bora i nije još morala bojiti kosu, ali na licu joj je bio ozbiljan, strog i odlučan izraz. Upravo je takva Petra Peterková bila:
ozbiljna, stroga i odlučna tridesetpetogodišnja žena, uspješna službenica u ministarstvu vanjskih poslova. Barem su je takvom vidjeli njezini
roditelji. Otac se zvao Karel, ali supruga ga je oslovljavala Peterka, a Petra tata. Karel su ga možda zvali na poslu, u poduzeću gdje je bio
trgovački zastupnik, dealer. Agent za toplu vodu, tako je njegov posao opisivala majka. Majka je otišla u mirovinu, više nigdje nije bila zaposlena
i zato za nikoga nije bila Květa /kvjeta/. Za supruga je bila žena, a Petra ju je zvala mama, ili ponekad mamica.
"Nije mi ni rekla da je teta bolesna i nikad si neću oprostiti što je dva mjeseca nisam posjetila, nije mi se išlo", izgovorila je majka ozbiljno
i nimalo svadljivo rečenicu koja je bila najbliže istini. Kad je teta umrla, Květa je odahnula. Smrt je bila najbolje rješenje za devedesetogodišnju
ženu, i za sve ostale. Tek danas, dok je putovala na pogreb, shvatila je tu nepobitnu činjenicu.
"Moramo slušati obavijesti o prometu", sjetio se otac Peterka i uključio radio. Čula se pjesma koju su u posljednje vrijeme stalno puštali,
komercijalni hit, ali istodobno, divlja i vesela glazba koja je prštala radošću i energijom.
Energija će mi danas biti potrebna, pomislila je Petra i zadovoljno se protegnula na stražnjem sjedalu. Danas će se prestati odupirati radosti.
Danas će priznati, a onda neka bude što bude. Možda bi trebala odmah početi. Upravo je zato i smislila odmor u vikendici s roditeljima, da bi im
rekla da...
"Mama", nagnula se naprijed, ali u posljednjem se trenutku predomislila. Uopće nije bilo sigurno da će, kad roditelji doznaju vijest, radost i
energija prštati i u autu. "Ovako rano smo krenuli zbog mene", umjesto priznanja je izgovorila običnu rečenicu.
"Zašto zbog tebe?" majka se znatiželjno okrenula prema njoj.
"Zato što moram na posao", odlučila je odjednom Petra, iako to ranije nije planirala. Ništa je nije vuklo na ministarstvo, ali na pogreb stare
tete još manje! Najradije bi se odmah našla s Honzom, ali nije znala gdje je, trebala mu se javiti tek navečer.
"Ti si je ionako jedva poznavala", odmahnula je majka rukom, a otac i Petra ovaj put nisu zakolutali očima samo zato što nisu bili sigurni misli
li to ozbiljno ili se opet samo želi svađati. Kao svih ovih pet dana.
Htjela je nešto izazvati – akciju, svađu, užasnu scenu. Htjela je da Peterka zaustavi auto i da ona može izaći, poletno zalupiti
vratima i potrčati u polje, na zrak, u slobodu. Ali znala je da bi je, čim bi Peterka nestao iza obzora, obuzeo najcrnji očaj da ga više nikad neće
vidjeti.
Pritom, nije imala razloga za svađu. Muž je nije varao (koliko je znala), skoro uopće nije pio, naravno, nije je tukao... Te ju je tri stvari
teta uvijek prvo upitala, kad bi se ponekad požalila. Što zapravo hoćeš, uvijek je bilo sljedeće tetino pitanje.
Da, što hoću? pitala je Květa Peterková samu sebe. Muž nije uživao u svome poslu (ali ona nije uživala uopće), nije osnovao firmu kad je za to
bila povoljna situacija (ali nije ni ona), kuću nije izgradio (ali ipak su uspjeli kupiti stan). Želim da se stalno ne boji da će na autoputu biti
kolona, pokušala je reći u sebi, ali ni to nije izrekla do kraja. Te čudne i ništavne misli zvučale bi zanimljivo samo u apsurdnoj drami. Mora s tim
prestati, inače će je zaboljeti glava. Ili mora popiti kavu. Danas još ništa nije pojela. Peterki se ujutro toliko žurilo da nisu stigli ni
doručkovati.
"Hoćemo li negdje stati i popiti kavu?" molećivo je pogledala muža. "Ionako imamo puno vremena."
"Znam", uzdahnuo je otac, ali prije nego što je stigao reći da se s autoputom nikad ne zna, da za nekoliko minuta može nastati kolona zbog koje
će izgubiti nekoliko sati, zazvonio mu je mobitel.
"Molim", rekao je nervozno, ali onda se osmjehnuo i nastavio potpuno drukčijim tonom: "Prijepodne ne, ali poslijepodne može. Dođite u ured. Ili
da ja dođem k vama? Zašto ne, to bi moglo uspjeti. Sigurno ćemo se nešto dogovoriti."
Tako zadovoljno sa mnom već dugo nije razgovarao, shvatila je majka sa žaljenjem, ali i sa zavišću. Ona već dugo ni sa kim nije tako zadovoljno
razgovarala.
A mene Honza neće nazvati, požalila je Petra, premda Honza nikad nije zvao tako rano. U sedam ujutro najčešće su bili zajedno.
"I što onda, hoćeš li u petak opet doći?" okrenula se majka prema njoj. Ta je ideja Petri bila zabavna. Već mnogo godina nije provodila vikende s
roditeljima. Od vremena kad je počela hodati s Honzom, nikad nije znala hoće li za vikend biti zajedno, ili će Honza morati otići kući, a ona će u
gradu ostati sama. Za svaki je slučaj petkom uvijek iz ministarstva kući nosila punu aktovku spisa. Radije je samu sebe vidjela kao prezaposlenu
direktoricu odjela, nego kao osamljenu ženu, kojoj iza prozora praznoga stana izmiče pravi život. Ali sad je život stao i čekao je.
"U petak ne", osmjehnula se Petra. Sad već nije mogla dočekati da roditeljima priopći novosti. Boji se to objaviti roditeljima, kao i Honzi, a
ipak je to sretna, radosna vijest. Tako se obično kaže. "Ali možemo stati i doručkovati, zar ne, tata", stala je na majčinu stranu. Neće im valjda
radosnu vijest objaviti pred krematorijem!
"Da se nasadim na glavu, kretenu jedan?" opsovao je odjednom otac svojim uobičajenim, ljutito-rezigniranim glasom. Petra je uplašeno pogledala
majku, ali naravno, psovka nije bila upućena njima dvjema.
"Ovdje je stvarno nemoguće voziti", uvrijeđeno se okrenuo otac, tražeći saveznika. Bio je u pravu. Vozili su se u dugoj koloni u lijevom,
takozvanom brzom traku, negdje ispred njih soptao je i usporavao ih kamion. Otraga se na njihov stari peugeot zalijepio veliki srebrni audi, kao da
vozač ne vidi kolonu ispred njih, dok se otac nije predao i pokunjeno se vratio u desni trak, ugurao se među dva kamiona. Vozili su se nizbrdo, kad
bi morali naglo zakočiti...
"Ovo se više ne da voziti, moramo kupiti auto. Renault mi se sviđa, a i nije tako skup", zaključio je otac, kao nakon većine scena s autoputa,
ali onda je dodao: "Već se osjećam kao progonjena životinja."
Možda i Peterka želi stati, zalupiti za sobom vrata i potrčati na zrak, na slobodu, u šumu, gdje žive stvarno progonjene životinje,
pomislila je njegova žena Květa. Razumjela ga je i žalila. Pomilovala ga je po ruci, ali onda je ponovila: "Stani da popijemo kavu, malo ćeš se
odmoriti."
Kao da se progonjena životinja može odmoriti uz kavu na benzinskoj pumpi.
"Tata, nemoj se uzrujavati, kupit ćete auto." Petra ga je žalila, ali ga nije razumjela. Pa ništa se nije dogodilo. Honza nikad u autu nije
dobivao napade nemoćnog bijesa, a nije mnogo mlađi od oca. Istina je da se s Honzom gotovo nikad nije vozila autoputom.
Honza se nije čudio ni kad mu je u četvrtak javila da će za vikend otputovati k roditeljima u vikendicu, ni kad mu je u nedjelju navečer
telefonirala da će još ostati.
"Onda me nazovi kad se vratiš u Prag", samo je to rekao. Nije joj rekao gdje će on biti, hoće li biti kod Petre, odnosno u stanu gdje je Petra
stanovala, ali je Honza plaćao velik dio stanarine, ili kod kuće, to znači sa ženom.
Nije se usudila pitati ga, ali kad bi bilo samo to! Nije se usudila muškarcu s kojim čeka dijete ni telefonirati! Vjerojatno će mu i danas samo
poslati SMS, a onda će pokorno čekati da on nazove nju, kad bude imao vremena i prilike, kad ne bude razgovarao sa ženom ili kćeri, držao u krilu
unuku, razgovarao s lobistima, pomoćnicima ili kolegama zastupnicima. Pravih je kolega u parlamentu imao samo nekoliko, a i oni će nakon izbora
otići, ukoliko ne promijene stranku.
Čekam dijete, pomislila je. Već je nekoliko dana znala da je trudna. Zasad se to nikome nije usudila otkriti, ali pri pomisli na to, uvijek bi
osjetila slutnju radosti. Što bi drugo u svojim godinama trebala osjećati? Kad je za dijete gotovo već bilo kasno. Kasno je bilo i za mnoge druge
stvari. Za tajnu ljubav s Honzom, koja je trajala već pet godina. Svih je tih pet godina ostala u ministarstvu, bojala se da bi, kad bi otišla van u
neko veleposlanstvo, tajna ljubav završila, a druga ne bi počela. Kolege iz ministarstva stalno su odlazili u inozemstvo i vraćali se sa sve više
novih vidika i iskustva i novca, ali Petra je zato izgradila karijeru u ministarstvu. Doduše, bila je to slaba utjeha, ali Petri iskustvo i novac
nisu bili potrebni, Honza ih je imao dovoljno. Petra je htjela Honzu. Tek nedavno, početkom lipnja, napokon se odlučila i prijavila na natječaj za
zamjenicu veleposlanika u Londonu. Možda je ostala trudna baš one noći nakon natječaja.
Ovo je bila posljednja prilika za dijete.
//Ili možda ne, počela je sanjariti. Ako sve dobro ispadne, može s Honzom imati još nekoliko djece. Dvoje ili troje, svi će stati u kuću izvan
Praga. Ona će ih u elegantnom malom autu, možda u novom renaultu, o kojem stalno govori tata, voziti u vrtić i na plivanje. Ukoliko se Honza
razvede, ispriča se supruzi i biračima i oženi se Petrom.
I u veliki stan u centru Londona mogli bi stati, kad bi Petra pobijedila na natječaju i dobila posao u Londonu. Svakoga bi jutra dala upute
dadilji i u elegantnom autu srednje veličine, možda u chrysleru, odvezla bi se do ureda.
Ovaj drugi scenarij je mogla lakše zamisliti bez Honze. Sigurno bi zbog dadilje bila ljubomorna, iako je vjerojatno smiješno da bude ljubomorna
na muškarca koji je dvadeset godina stariji. Kad ovo dijete krene na fakultet, Honza će odavno biti u mirovini. Ili će umrijeti – ali to je daleko,
dijete se još nije ni rodilo.
Budućnost je nudila dobre varijante, ili još bolje. Nijedna nije bila izrazito loša. U onoj manje dobroj, Honza se neće razvesti, samo će nju i
dijete posjećivati u njihovu stanu. A u još manje dobroj varijanti, neće ih više ni posjećivati – ali ni zbog toga svijet neće propasti, jer će
Petra moći imati još djece, možda s nekim koga će upoznati u Londonu i tko će doživjeti da djeca krenu na fakultet. I na koga neće biti ljubomorna.
Sigurno više neće biti sama. U svakom slučaju, noću nekoliko godina neću biti sama, pomislila je, kako bi se napokon počela veseliti i prestala se
brinuti hoće li Honzi vijest o djetetu priopćiti SMS-om ili telefonom ili osobno, a roditeljima na pumpi ili u autu ili ispred krematorija. To je
ipak sporedno.//
"Ovdje ne izgleda loše. Stani, doručkovat ćemo", ponovo je progovorila majka kad su na dugačkoj uzbrdici ugledali reklamu za novu pumpu. Autoput
se proširio za treći trak. Kamion koji ih je već dugo usporavao, prešao je u desni, spori trak, i Peterke su vidjeli da u kavezima s rešetkama vozi
tisuću kokoši, ili možda i više. U brzom traku, jedan je veliki auto za drugim pretjecao njihov peugeot.
"No dobro", prestao se opirati otac.
Parkirali su se iza žute četvrtaste zgrade. Živica koja je benzinsku pumpu trebala odijeliti od okolice, još nije izrasla i tako se otvarao
pogled na krajolik. Otac se ogledavao, kao da ga je iznenadilo što se odmah uz autoput nalaze plodno polje, niz šumovitih brežuljaka, zgrade tipične
za gradiće, zvonik crkve, krajolik koji živi vlastitim životom, dok kroz njega luđačkom brzinom beskonačne kolone auta jure u Prag, u megalopolis.
//Ni majka se nije sjetila da je već nekoliko puta bila ondje, da se u blizini nalazi stijena iznad rijeke.
Nekad je na tome mjestu bilo selo, ljudima u njemu polako su prolazili sati i dani, stijena iznad rijeke ih je štitila, ali nije ih uvijek
uspijevala zaštititi. Ponekad bi u selo velikom brzinom stigli vojnici i jahači iz udaljenih megalopolisa, nekoga bi ubili, druge bi odvukli sa
sobom. Sve dok jednom napadača nije bilo mnogo i selo se sljedećeg jutra nije probudilo, na početku dana koji je mogao donijeti bilo što, jer se
večer trebala spustiti tek nakon mnogo godina.
Selu više ni jedan dan ništa nije donio, gotovo se stopilo sa šumovitim krajolikom, gdje je vrijeme beskonačno i ne dijeli se na jutro, podne i
večer. Gotovo, ali ne potpuno. Ostala je crkva koja se za javnost otvarala samo ponekad, za hodočašća, ili kad bi netko umro, budući da je pokraj
crkve bilo i groblje, gdje su na mnogim grobovima sjedili bucmasti anđeli, koji su zamišljeno podupirali glave rukama. Doimali su se poput dragih
anđela čuvara, ali zapravo su bili anđeli smrti i možda su upravo o tome razmišljali.//
Otac se trgnuo iz misli. Iz kafića je izašlo nekoliko muškaraca u ofucanim radnim odijelima. Krenuli su prema prljavom minibusu na kojem se
ljuštila boja. Izgledao je kao da neće daleko stići. Ukrajinci, pomislio je otac, i doista, na minibusu je vidio ukrajinske tablice.
Požurio je za ženom Květom i kćeri Petrom. Nije više znao kako će preživjeti odmor s njima. S Květom je u posljednje vrijeme bilo neizdrživo. A
Petra? Pa nije normalno da tridesetopetogodišnja zdrava i normalna žena provodi odmor s tatom i mamom u vikendici, nema nikoga i ne misli ni na što
drugo nego na karijeru i na krpice, kakve ne bi odjenula ni imalo razumna dvadesetogodišnjakinja. Otac Peterka nije mogao shvatiti da je tako
završila njegova jedina kći, njegova divna djevojčica. Na trenutak se ljutio na nju i na muškarce oko nje, što je netko nije našao i oženio i odavno
joj napravio hrpu djece.
Pogreb ženine tete ponudio mu je bijeg. Mogao bi prekinuti odmor, ostati u Pragu i vratiti se na posao. Za dva dana bi u uredu završio sve
zaostatke, ali što je ta mogućnost bila bliža, to je manje imao volje otići iz vikendice na granici divlje Vysočine /visočine/ i povijesnog,
tisućugodišnjeg srednjočeškog kraja, napustiti bezvremeni krajolik i pustiti da ga struja autoputa odvuče natrag u svakodnevni život. Slutio je da
bi ga u uredu već mogao čekati otkaz. Cijeloga proljeća nije se govorilo ni o čemu drugome nego o promjeni vlasnika. Nije mogao ni zamisliti taj
trenutak. Otići će ponosno, u to nije bilo sumnje – ali kamo?
"Šteta što moramo ići u Prag", rekla je Květa kad je sjeo k njima, i sa svoje je tacne pred njega stavila kavu i krafnu.
"Ne moramo," osmjehnuo se, "ili, sad moramo, ali navečer ćemo se opet vratiti."
"Znači, nećeš ostati u Pragu?" Květa se tako očito razveselila da ga je to dirnulo i pomilovao ju je po ruci.
"Moram vam nešto reći", prekinula je roditelje Petra, kao da ne želi biti isključena iz njihova iznenadnog zajedništva. "Zapravo sam vam to
htjela reći još u vikendici, čak sam zbog toga došla, ali..." Sad joj je bilo žao što im važnu vijest nije priopćila neke večeri ili predvečerja u
vikendici, tako bi je cijelu noć mogli apsorbirati, bilo joj je krivo što će im to reći na benzinskoj pumpi, za vrijeme kratke stanke za kavu.
"Udaješ se?" upitala je majka brzo, kao iz šale, ali ipak s nesigurnom nadom u glasu.
"U to nisam sigurna", rekla je Petra i zamalo joj je prisjelo, ali ipak se odlučila: "Ne znam hoću li se udati, ali imat ću dijete."
Majka je i dalje miješala kavu, otac je i dalje jeo krafnu, kao da nisu upravo doznali jednu od najvažnijih stvari u životu. Jesam li im to
stvarno rekla, ili samo u mislima, posumnjala je Petra.
"S kim ćeš imati dijete?" upitao je napokon otac.
"To sad nije toliko važno", htjela se izvući Petra. Već je požalila što vijest nije prvo rekla Honzi. Na neki se način ponijela nepošteno prema
njemu.
"To je važno", rekao je otac ozbiljno i čudno pogledao Petru, kao da mu je strana i nepoznata.
"Petrice", pomilovala ju je majka po glavi, kao da je Petra ponovo mala djevojčica, "ali nećeš ga se riješiti, zar ne?" upitala je i u njezinu se
glasu čuo strah.
"Što ti je mama?" iskolačila je Petra oči. "Ja se tome strašno veselim!"
Naravno da me zanima s kim čeka dijete i hoće li se udati i gdje će živjeti i kako sve to zamišlja, odgovarala je u sebi Květa
Peterková na mužev začuđeni pogled, ali ne želim je to sad pitati, ne želim da ta važna vijest klizne i nestane. Ne želim da bude kao s tetom –
umrla je, sad će je brzo pokopati, glavno da sve bude kao prije i da se ništa ne promijeni. Kad se rodi dijete, sve će se promijeniti. Petri ću
pomagati oko djeteta, jer sama neće moći. Bit ću potrebna, bit ću baka, prestat ću se gubiti u čudnim razmišljanjima.
"S kim čekaš dijete, Petrice?" upitala je majka nešto konkretno, da ne bi upala u vrtlog čudnih misli.
"Ne znate ga", Petra je lagano odmahnula rukom, kao da je roditelji pitaju s kim navečer ide u kino, ali onda se te lakoće uplašila.
"A hoćemo li ga upoznati?" upitala je majka jednako tako lako, kao da je budući otac samo nevažni bonus uz bitno važnije buduće dijete.
"Ili ga možda znate", rekla je Petra tiho, udahnula je zrak i otkrila veliku tajnu: "Jan Bína."
Roditelji su je i dalje upitno gledali. Petra se nije čudila. Honza nije bio zastupnik koji se često pojavljivao u medijima. Njegov razvod neće
biti skandal, a ni vjenčanje se neće pojaviti na naslovnicama žute štampe, dakako, ako uopće bude razvoda i novog vjenčanja.
"Ali ne misliš valjda na onog zastupnika, Petrice?" majka je odjednom zvučala oprezno. "Pa on je naših godina", rekla je žalosno i nije dodala da
oni nikad ne bi glasovali za njegovu stranku, budući da samo rasipa energiju na nebitne stvari.
"Mislim", rekla je Petra tiho.
"Moramo krenuti, da stignemo na pogreb", ustao je otac. Velika je vijest bila izgovorena, sve se vraća u stare kolosijeke, dijete će se roditi u
siječnju, ali sad moraju stići na pogreb.
"Pogledajte, ovce", ogledavala se majka kad su se približili autu. "Snimaju li nekakvu reklamu?" nasmijala se zbog idiličnog prizora: deset
bijelih ovaca na livadi, jutarnja magla već se odavno podigla, sunce je veselo sjalo i počinjao je vruć ljetni dan.
Napustili su benzinsku pumpu. Autoput je bio neuobičajeno prazan. Nisu morali nikoga pretjecati, ni njihov stari peugeot nitko nije želio
zaobići. Na obzoru nije bilo nijednog kamiona.
"Sigurno se dogodila neka nesreća, kad nikoga nema", čudio se otac Peterka u pola glasa, ali supruga i kći nisu mu odgovorile. Petra je
razmišljala je li radosnu vijest trebala roditeljima objaviti drukčije. Ili u drugo vrijeme. Zar ih ne zanima da je oženjen, da je samo godinu mlađi
od mame, da ima unuku?
Pomalo ju je obuzeo očaj da ni Honzi neće uspjeti reći vijest na pravi način, tako da se sve promijeni. Možda uopće neće uspjeti objaviti vijest
Honzi, jer se on neće javiti na telefon, neće odgovoriti na SMS. Ona neće pobijediti na natječaju za London, za nekoliko mjeseci će joj isteći
ugovor o najmu stana, neće naći novi stan i morat će se ponizno, s djetetom, vratiti roditeljima. Zar sam zaboravila da budućnost nudi samo dobre
varijante, ili još bolje, sama je sebe opomenula u mislima. U tom joj je trenutku zazvonio mobitel. Kao za nagradu. Što trebam reći, proletjelo joj
je kroz glavu. Da očekujem dijete? Da ću uskoro nazvati? Tek je tad s nevjericom pogledala nepoznati broj i razočarano se predstavila imenom i
prezimenom, kako je navikla u ministarstvu: "Petra Peterková."
Promet na autoputu opet se pojačao. Pretjecali su stari, otučeni minibus. S naporom se ispred njih vukao uzbrdo, ali nije prelazio u spori trak.
"To su vjerojatno oni Ukrajinci s pumpe", naglasio je otac, ali ni ovaj put mu nitko nije odgovorio.
Petra je još uvijek telefonirala. Točnije rečeno, držala je mobitel kraj uha i začuđeno slušala.
"Mama, je li k vama stiglo neko pismo?" upitala je poslije.
"Je, stiglo je," uplašeno je rekla majka, "još prije godišnjeg, ali potpuno sam na njega zaboravila, je li bilo nešto važno?"
"Danas imam susret s kolegicama s fakulteta," rekla je Petra oklijevajući, "ali nije u Pragu, već negdje ovdje, u blizini..." S očekivanjem je
pogledala u oca. Zapravo bi je u vikendicu, gdje se trebao održati susret, mogao odvesti na povratku s pogreba. No otac joj ništa takvo nije
ponudio.
"I što, hoćemo li pripremati svadbu?" upitao je kao da nije znao da bi se prvo trebao pripremiti razvod.
"Nazvat ću ga i upitati", nasmijala se Petra. Zašto se stalno brinem? Ponovo je izvukla mobitel i nazvala Honzin broj.
"Čekaj malo", prekinuo ju je otac i naglo pojačao radio, kao da je obavijest o prometu važnija od svadbe. Majka je zavjerenički pogledala otraga,
u Petru, i zakolutala očima. Što je najbolje, to i nije bila obavijest o prometu. "...trenutačno stupa na snagu zabrana o uvozu mesa peradi, perja i
živih ptica", čulo se s radija. Slične su se vijesti ponavljale tako često da više nitko nije na njih obraćao pozornost, ni obitelj Peterka nije
zanimalo odakle i kamo se ne smiju uvoziti ni žive ni mrtve ptice.
Translated from Czech into Croatian by Sanja Milicevic – Armada
Mika Waltari, the Finn
To live or die with his nation
War was on the horizon, of course, in Finland. Its biggest neighbour and traditional enemy, the Soviet Union, was undergoing the worst years of
Stalin’s terror and preparing to take over the world. After the rise of Nazism, Finland’s traditional ally, Germany, was taking a similar route.
Finland found itself in a vacuum (a situation that would repeat itself, but in a quite different context, of course, after the collapse of the
Soviet Union in 1991). Some sections of the political spectrum looked for allies in Scandinavia, particularly Sweden, while anti-Swedish groups
enthusiastically called for a Greater Finland, to comprise Ingria (the area around Leningrad inhabited by a Ugro-Finnish population) and eastern (Russian)
Karelia. Stalin was also concerned about the territory around Leningrad; in his view, the Soviet-Finnish frontier ran too close to the second
largest Soviet city to enable its effective defence. The Soviet Union sought more and more guarantees of security from Finland, requesting four
islands in the Gulf of Finland and part of the Karelian isthmus in exchange for territory in eastern Karelia, and also demanding guarantees that
German troops would not pass through Finnish territory. Its constant claims went far beyond anything that was standard between two sovereign states,
so negotiations were inconclusive, as also were Finland’s attempts to achieve closer defensive ties with Sweden. On 23 August 1939, to the surprise
of the entire world, the Soviet Union and Germany signed a non-aggression treaty, subsequently dubbed the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact. Under the terms
of secret protocols the two empires divided Europe into their two spheres of influence. Eastern Poland, the Baltic States and Finland were assigned
to the Soviet sphere. On 1 September 1939, Germany invaded Poland, and England and France declared war on Germany. Shortly afterwards the Soviet
Union occupied eastern Poland and signed treaties of alliance with Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania, whereby those countries would allow the
establishment of Soviet military bases on their territories. In reality it was the first step towards the Soviet occupation of the three independent
states. The same scenario was prepared for Finland also
Finland refused to accede to the Soviet demands even though by then it was obvious that it could count on help either from Scandinavia or from
the western powers. The talks conducted during October and November 1939 were adjourned without any concrete outcome.
On 26 November, the Soviet Union accused Finland of provocation on its frontier. On 28 November it unilaterally revoked the non-aggression pact
of 1932 and cut off diplomatic ties with Finland. On 30 November the Soviet army crossed the frontier and it bombed Helsinki the same day. This was
the beginning of the Winter War (talvisota).
Not long ago, the – on the face of it, shocking – theory was advanced in the press that Finland deliberately provoked the war with the Soviet
Union in order to have an “alibi” for allying itself with Germany and conquering Soviet territory. Even though such tendencies were indeed present
among certain political circles in Finland at the time, it does not alter the way the war was perceived by Finnish society at the time: their small,
peace-loving country had been invaded by the dreaded “bear from the East”.
In his first order, Marshal Mannerheim, the Commander-in-Chief of the Finnish army, declared that in this war the Finns would be fighting for
their homes, their faith and their homeland.
Finland won world-wide support. The Soviet Union was expelled from the League of Nations as an aggressor. Sweden and the western powers promised
Finland aid, but not immediately – Sweden feared for its neutrality. So in the end the Finns had to face their traditional enemy on their own. The
nation united (with the exception of a small group of Communists headed by Otto Ville Kuusinen, who would lead a puppet government at Terijoki) and
the Winter War would efface the worst dissensions remaining from the civil war.
The Finnish troops first managed to halt the enemy’s advance at what is more or less the present Finno-Russian border. Courage and determination
made up for their lack of weaponry.
In January 1940 the Soviet Union sent reinforcements to the front and Finns were forced to retreat. The Finnish government made increasing
efforts to enter into negotiations with the Soviets. Eventually two women acted as mediators: the Estonian-Finnish writer Hella Wuolijoki (1886 –
1954), well-known also as an associate of Bertold Brecht and in Finland as the author of a cycle of stage plays called The Women of Niskavuori) and
her friend the Soviet ambassador to Stockholm Alexandra Kollontai.
A peace treaty was signed in March 1940. Finland was no longer in any position to bargain and had simply accepted the conditions dictated by the
Soviet Union: withdrawal from all territory claimed by the Soviets in Karelia and acceptance of some 400 thousand Finns to be expelled from the
annexed territory of Karelia.
In Finland the peace treaty was greeted with dismay and people start to talk about an armistice, rather than peace, and thoughts of revenge begin
to emerge.
The hardest task during the period of the armistice was finding homes for the 400 thousand or so refugees from Karelia.
Meanwhile war continued in Europe.
At the end of summer 1940 the Soviet Union occupied Estonia, Lithuania and Latvia, which had acceded to its conditions the previous year – this
vindicated Finland’s obduracy and proved that the Winter War had been justified.
Disillusioned with its western allies, Finland once started to turn to Germany. The main objective of the Finno-German alliance was initially
fear of a fresh Soviet attack, but gradually the idea of reconquering Karelia becomes increasingly alluring, because the refugees could be returned
home and there was a possibility of conquering eastern Karelia too (and in that connection there was talk of protecting the Finno-Ugric populations
there). In June 1941 German troops started to be redeployed from Norway to the north of Finland. On 17 June, Marshal Mannerheim ordered general
mobilisation, but Finland tried to stay out of things as much as possible and not join the attack on the Soviet Union, which commenced on 22 June
1941. On 25 June, however, Soviet aircraft bombed several Finnish towns and Finland entered the war against the Soviet Union. This war is known in
Finland as the Continuation War (jatkosota).
Officially the war was presented as a defensive war aimed at the return of western Karelia with German assistance, but in some circles there is
talk of a Greater Finland, as mentioned earlier. Mannerheim himself talked about the liberation of eastern Karelia from Bolshevism in an order of 10
July 1941. The nation was not as united on this issue, however, as it had been in the Winter War, and it was hard to convince the western
democracies of the rightfulness of claims to eastern Karelia, because in the meantime they had become allies of the Soviet Union – and enemies of
Finland.
After the start of hostilities the Finns quickly recovered the territory they had lost (Vyborg was captured on 30 August), but they did not
advance much beyond the old frontiers, because, in spite of Hitler’s insistence, Mannerheim did not want Finns to have a part in the blockade and
capture of Leningrad or an attack on the railway to Murmansk. North of Leningrad, however, the army advanced to the east and at the beginning of
October 1941 it captured the capital of eastern Karelia, Petrozavodsk (Äänislinna in Finnish).
The Finns did not advance further, and the war entered its positional phase. The main battles subsequently took place outside Moscow and at
Stalingrad (but without the involvement of the Finnish army).
In 1943 it started to become clear that Germany would not win the war, and Finland tried to find a way to extricate itself as advantageously as
possible both from the war and from its alliance with Germany, and also concluding as favourable a peace with the Soviet Union as could be achieved.
At the conference of the big powers in Teheran in December 1943, the Soviet Union had obtained two concessions that would be crucial for the future
of Finland: the issue of Finland would be a Finno-Soviet matter and negotiations would be based on the 1940 frontiers (i.e. Karelia and Vyborg would
be ceded to the Soviet Union).
Waltari was a person of right-wing, conservative views, and he had a very perceptive awareness of the danger of Communism from the Soviet Union,
while he was not immediately aware of the danger from the direction of Germany. The National Socialist theories about a new man initially attracted
and even beguiled the idealistic Waltari (and he actually translated a book about Horst Wessel – promoted by the Nazis as a hero – written by Hans
Heinz Ebers, who was known to him as an author of horror stories, something that the left-wing critics held against him for a long time). As late as
1939 he visited Germany and he wrote favourably, albeit not uncritically, about his impressions in an article entitled Unknown Germany (1939,
Tuntematon Saksa). He saw nothing wrong in the recent anti-Jewish pogrom or in the anti-Jewish exhibition, and expressed admiration for the
Germans’ energy and optimism, and the widespread conviction that there would be no war.
His admiration continued beyond 1939 and he made a further visit to Germany in 1942. He was one of seven Finnish writers to attend the Congress
of the European Writers’ Union in Weimar. Again he found nothing to complain about: his German hosts were patient and attentive, Dr Goebbels
delivered a splendid speech, which made enormous sense and was very moderate. Germany was seeking to build a new Europe in cooperation with other
nations, and there were no shortages even in wartime Berlin... It must be borne in mind that by 1942 Germany was Finland’s ally and also that in his
novels Waltari would richly compensate for his fascination with totalitarianism. Above all it should be forgotten that Waltari did not write those
articles “voluntarily”: it was his professional and military duty as part of his military service in the State Information Bureau to write wartime
propaganda. Moreover, the story is told in Finnish literary circles of how one of their “patient and attentive German hosts” once brought the
Finnish writers some pocket money to their hotel and Mika Waltari, who had already had a few drinks, took the money, tore it in half and threw it
out the window. Professor Panu Rajala also maintains that the Nazi greeting Heil Hitler was alien to Waltari and the other Finnish writers,
and they refused to raise their arms in salute when Goebbels arrived, as a result of which it was necessary to edit it out of the propaganda film
made of the event.
IInterview subequently by Ritva Haavikko, the historian Eino Jutikkala, Waltari’s erstwhile superior in the State Information Bureau, expressed
the view that it was Waltari’s propaganda activity that gave rise to a certain cynicism in him and a realisation of the relativity of every
historical truth, even though during the war – according to Juttikala – the Bureau did not write total lies, but propaganda, a one-sided version of
events, in which certain facts were suppressed. The difference between propaganda and truth, between the official and the true version of history
was an important element in all Waltari’s historical novels and in that way his wartime experience helped promote Waltari’s international fame.
Nevertheless his words of admiration for the nice Germans in 1942, the year of the bloody retribution for the assassination of Heydrich in Prague,
including the massacre at Lidice, is hard for a Czech to stomach.
During the Winter War, Mika Waltari worked in the Finlandia press agency and in the Continuation War, he served in the State Information Bureau,
as previously noted. He would recall that he wrote possibly as many as a thousand articles (a figure questioned by Eino Jutikkala, who claimed that
Waltari about 200 articles for the State Information Bureau). As part of his propaganda activity, Waltari also wrote a number of books, of which two
are chiefly still remembered: Totuus Virosta, Latviasta ja Liettuasta (The Truth about Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania) from 1941, and
Neuvostovakoilun varjossa (Under the Shadow of Soviet Intelligence) of 1942. Writing books was not part of Waltari’s usual propaganda activity,
which mostly consisted of writing articles for the Finnish press and also for foreign, chiefly German, newspapers. Waltari wrote both books (in
Jutikkala’s opinion) on orders from above, possibly from the Prime Minister himself.
In the book The Truth about Estonia, Latvia and Lithuania (written under the pseudonym Nauticus), he accurately captures both the
enthusiastic atmosphere prior to the Soviet occupation of the Baltic states and also the oppressive sense of hopelessness after it. The things
described by Waltari are now common knowledge but accuracy and clarity of his account is remarkable seeing that many people at that time – not only
writers, but also politicians and statesmen – harboured illusions about the Soviet Union.
In the Shadow of Soviet Intelligence accuses the Soviet embassy in Helsinki of being a centre of espionage and provocation, and proves
that prior to World War II, the aim of all activity by the Soviet embassy was the creation of a Soviet Finland and its subsequent annexation by the
Soviet Union. The book appeared in the middle of the Continuation War with the Soviet Union when the embassy was not in operation in Helsinki and at
a time when Finland was fighting the Soviet Union not with military means but also propaganda. This is obvious from its fervent and impassioned
style.
Before the war the Soviet embassy was located at No.21 Bulevardi, in an administrative building dating from Czarist days that also housed a
Russian girls’ school. During World War I it was also the headquarters of the intelligence section of the Baltic Fleet, and for a short period after
the war it was the headquarters of the Finnish State Police. The Soviet Embassy moved into the building in 1920, after the peace treaty was signed
at Tartu.
Although it has been modernised, the building at Bulevardi 21, still does not have a particularly friendly feel. It houses several national
institutions, such as the Data Protection Bureau, the Public Prosecutor’s office, etc.
Waltari describes in detail the successive Soviet ambassadors. Worth mentioning is Ivan Maisky (ambassador to Finland 1929-1932), whose main task
had been to achieve a non-aggression pact with Finland (which he and his comrades privately referred to as an “aggression pact”). Maisky was a
cultured diplomat, who was well-educated and a former Menshevik. He was able to make contacts at all levels of society and was therefore regarded by
Waltari as the most dangerous of the Soviet diplomats to have served in Finland. A tragi-comic figure was Vladimir Derevyansky, a former
iron-foundry worker from St Petersburg, who had utter faith in the reports by Finnish Communist agitators about how Finland was on the brink of
revolution and how the entire nation could not wait to be part of the Soviet Union. He used to send such reports to Moscow, and in Waltari’s view
they helped provoke the Winter War, because Stalin thought Finland would be easy prey.
On 22 May 1940, just three days before the arrival of a new ambassador, Ivan Zotov, in the brief and uncertain period of peace between the end of
the Winter War and the beginning of the Continuation War, the Finno-Soviet Society for Peace and Cooperation was founded. For Waltari this was of
the saddest chapters of Finnish history. The Society was simply a legal cover to enable the banned Finnish Communist Party to continue its activity.
Officially its purpose was to engage in publicity about the Soviet Union (or more accurately in propaganda, by publishing various leaflets
containing blatant lies – among the most innocent of which was the assertion that childbirth was totally painless in the Soviet Union), but this was
simply a cover for espionage and efforts to persuade the people that the best thing for Finland would be to become part of the Soviet Union.
Although it was in operation for just a few months (it was banned in December 1940 for using illegal methods) and it failed to win over any
significant personalities to its cause, it had set up a total of 115 branches throughout the country, with 35,154 members. Waltari was amazed at the
figure, although he points out that part of the membership had joined because it believed that the Society truly existed to preserve peace between
Finland and the Soviet Union.
The Soviet Union miscalculated the situation in Finland on several occasions. In the Winter War the population did not come out in support of
Kuusinen’s puppet government, it did not welcome the Soviets as liberators, and the activity of the Finno-Soviet Society was also unsuccessful... As
a result the Soviet embassy engaged in direct military espionage with increasing blatancy and shamelessness. For that purpose consulates were set up
at Marianhamina (Mariehamn), the capital of the island of Åland and at Petsamo in the Northern Ice Ocean (which was ceded to the Soviet Union after
World War II), which were obviously much more important in terms of espionage than consular activity. Indeed the most important parts of the book
are the specific and detailed account of the activity of individuals – the staff of the Soviet Embassy on the one hand, and the spies they
recruited, on the other – because they demonstrated convincingly to Waltari’s contemporaries that the Soviet Embassy really was engaging in
espionage and activity that was hostile to Finland. (So what? says the modern reader, that’s common knowledge; but it in 1942 many gullible Finns
were not aware of the fact). At the same time they are lively, dramatic and thrilling stories that make no secret of the fact they author is not an
official but a writer.
Apart from propaganda, Mika Waltari also wrote a number of works of fiction during the war. They also display markedly patriotic sentiments,
because he was a sincere and convinced Finnish patriot. As early as the Winter War he decided with fervour that it was his duty and destiny to live
or die for with his nation, and he never entertained doubts about that decision and never thought of living elsewhere, even though he was famous and
rich enough after the war to do so.
The novel Antero ei enää palaa (Antero won’t be coming home) from 1940, reflects the tragic atmosphere of the Winter War. In 1943
Waltari published Rakkaus vainoaikaan (Love in Wartime) a novel depicting the brief period of peace between Winter and Continuation wars.
Both novels are a faithful reflection of the period when they were written and they accurately depict the moods of Finnish society that united
against the treacherous Soviet aggression, as well as the period after the Winter War, which the Finns lost, when they yearned for revenge and
justice. Understandably both books are strongly anti-Soviet and were not published after the war in Finland, let alone in the Soviet Union. In fact
Waltari was not published at all during the Soviet period and the first Russian translation of any of his works was in 1991.
Waltari also published two historical novels during the war: in 1942 a novel set in the 16th century entitled Kaarina Maununtytär
(in Swedish, Karin Månsdotter, the name of a long-term mistress of King Eric XIV of Sweden), and in 1944 (the last year of the war for Finland) a
novel set in 1809, the year that Finland was annexed by Russia, entitled Tanssi yli hautojen (Dancing on Graves). Both novels originated as
screenplays. The screenplay of Kaarina was never made into a film; Dancing on Graves was filmed in 1950.
These were Waltari’s first two historical novels (if we discount the trilogy From Father to Son), which was indeed closely connected with the
history of Finland and Helsinki, but was more of a family saga that a historical regime in the classical sense) and might be seen as a preparation
for the so-called big historical novels which won Waltari international fame after the war.
What the wartime novels have in common with the later ones is that they are set at a moment in time when, in a certain sense, one world was
coming to an end and another was beginning. Just prior to the events in Karin Månsdotter the Kalmar Union had fallen apart and Gustav Vasa became
the first king of a newly independent Sweden. During the turbulent reigns of his sons, Finland first gained a certain degree of independence. It was
made an archduchy – chiefly in order that King John III’s son should acquire a grand-sounding title. In Dancing on Graves the turning point is even
more pronounced as the action of the novel takes place in 1809, when Finland “shifted” from Sweden to Russia, which a considerable section of
Finnish society regarded as a transition from the West to the East and from civilisation to barbarity.
Another feature in common with the later historical novels is the fact that one of the main protagonists is a monarch – in Karin, King Eric, in
Dancing on Graves, Czar Alexander I. The monarch, who holds sway over the lives of many of his subjects, is depicted as a complex and contradictory
figure. Power would seem to have fascinated Waltari, at least insofar as his large historical novels feature the powerful of this world, who easily
bedazzle the main protagonists and maybe the author himself, who perceive them as contradictory and complex figures, but essentially good and also
often lonely individuals.
Both the wartime novels have female protagonists – ordinary Finnish women (or almost-Finnish in Karin’s case), but unlike the later novels, they
are extremely patriotic books based on the history of Finland.
Karin is an ordinary young woman from Stockholm, the daughter of a soldier Måns, whose ancestors came from Finland – but that is not the only
Finnish connection in the novel. King Eric XIV, son of the founder of the Swedish empire, Gustav Vasa, falls in love with Karin. In his endeavours
to gain domination of the Baltic Sea, Eric wages war with Denmark, Lübeck and Poland, but above all he is competing for power with his half-brother
John, Gustav’s son from a different marriage. John is duke and governor in Finland, residing with his wife, the Polish princess Catherine Jagellon,
at the castle of Turku, where they create a Renaissance court at which arts and culture flourish. Indeed it is the advent of the Renaissance that
represents the historical watershed in the novel. In Finnish historical literature Eric is depicted as pathologically suspicious – he suspects
everyone around him of having designs on the throne and his life, the only person he trusts being Karin, whom he even marries in the end – to
universal dismay – after his plans for a dynastically advantageous marriage come to naught. Although Eric eventually fell prey to mental illness it
is hard to describe his suspiciousness as pathological – after Duke John and his other half-brothers really do dethrone him in the end and bring
about his death, and Karin departs for Finland the dreamt-of land of her forebears.
Dancing on Graves takes place in 1809, after Finland’s annexation by Russia, and the main theme of the novel is the love of Czar Alexander I for
the beautiful daughter of a Finnish country nobleman: Ulle Möllersvärd. Ulla is not merely a beautiful young woman, however, she is also a Finnish
patriot and wants the Czar to love not only her but also Finland as a whole. She wants him to allow Finland to retain its old rights and privileges,
and this happens. The Czar give Finland even more – he gives it autonomy and so annexation by Russia ensured that the country enjoyed favourable
development.
Finnish critics inevitably sought and found in Dancing in Graves, in which Finland fought with Russia, an analogy with World War II, in which
Finland was at war with the Soviet Union. In both cases the Russians tried to dominate Finland and in both cases they were only partly successful.
In 1809 the Finns achieved autonomy thanks to their courage and in 1944, thanks to the courage of its soldiers, Finland preserved its freedom and
independence, albeit in a somewhat curtailed form.
In September 1944, Finland really did manage to conclude a separate peace with the Soviet Union (although a definitive peace treaty was not
signed until 1947). Finland lost about a third of its territory – Karelia and the city of Vyborg – and was obliged to accept almost half a million
Karelian refugees. In matters of foreign policy it had to start having regard for Soviet interests and wishes, and it had to pay enormous war
reparations to the Soviet Union. There was nothing very untoward about that; victors always dictate such conditions, whether or not a war is just,
and Finland came to terms with them. The Finns understand the meaning of the ugly-sounding term “geopolitical realism”. Presidents Paasikivi and
Kekkonen convinced the nation that Finland would always have the Soviet Union as a neighbour and therefore had to maintain the best relations with
it. In Finland this approach was known as the Paasikivi and Kekkonen Line, in the West it was described pejoratively as Finlandisation. Today the
Soviet Union no longer exists, but Karelia is still part of Russia and officially Finland has no intention of changing that situation. Nevertheless,
from time to time there surfaces a nostalgia for that cradle of Finnish culture and home of the national epic, the Kalevala, as well as for the
beautiful city of Vyborg, the setting for several of Waltari’s works, where Alvaro Aalto’s famous library is in a woeful state of dilapidation.
Although they were not welcomed by the rest of the Finns with open arms, the Karelian immigrants are now successful citizens of Finland. Finland
paid its reparations in full long ago and the Finns say that it was on account of them (or maybe thanks to them) that Finnish industry was given a
kick-start after the war.
What was worse, maybe, was the sudden change to the atmosphere of Finnish society. In the space of single day, 4 September 1944, when the
armistice was signed, Finland as a whole had to “turn its coat”: the Soviet Union, Finland’s age-old enemy – its only one, in fact – became
officially its beloved neighbour, friend and brother. As a Czech I am half-tempted to add “for ever and ever”, quoting the old Communist slogan in
my own country , but in Finland this is no joking matter, because it is a hard geopolitical reality.
Between the signing of the armistice and the conclusion of the peace treaty, Finland was governed, to all intents and purposes, by the so-called
Allied Control Commission, which set up its headquarters in the Torni Hotel in Helsinki. Apart from a few token British members, it consisted
entirely of Soviet representatives headed by Andrei Zhdanov. The Commission decreed the legalisation of the Finnish Communist Party and the banning
of four hundred patriotic organisations that operated in Finland during the war. Zhdanov delivered to the government (and specifically to the
Communist interior minister Leino) a long list of persons who were to be convicted of high treason and imprisoned. In the end fourteen people were
convicted as “culprits of the war”, including the wartime president Risto Ryti, who was sentenced to ten years in prison of which he served three.
Those fourteen convictions were quite sufficient to fulfil the objective of sowing fear of mass arrests and deportation to Siberia.
A list was drawn up of “anti-Soviet” books to be withdrawn from sale in bookshops and removed from libraries. In addition to Hitler’s Mein Kampf,
it featured several books of memoirs by Russian émigrés, wartime fiction by Finnish authors – and Waltari’s book In the Shadow of Soviet
Intelligence.
In 1958 the Ministry of Education and Culture rescinded the ban and local authorities could return the books to libraries at their discretion.
However, the ministry recommended that they only be loaned solely for study purposes and not be made generally available; that was the situation up
to the 1970s.
In spite of everything, Finland preserved its freedom and independence. Things could have turned out much worse, as Waltari would often repeat
(such as in his book I Left for Istanbul).
Waltari was unpopular with the Communists – who were playing an ever increasing role in public affairs – and also with the Soviets. And yet it
was to one of the most creative periods this Finnish patriot, the time when he produced his biggest and best works and achieved international fame.
This is not as paradoxical as it seems, however; Waltari himself declared that Sinuhe the Egyptian and the other large-scale historical novels would
have turned out very differently were it not for his bitter wartime experiences. Would they have achieved the same recognition, if the author
himself had not experienced at first hand historical manipulation and injustice, if he had not acquired his experience of propaganda, if he had not
witnessed that “turning of coats”, that moral rock bottom and the upending of values overnight?
Translated from Czech into English by Gerald Turner
Vždycky jedna noc/ Noč nikogda nevernjotsja
– Ничего, что ты пойдешь одна? – спросил Илмари, подойдя сзади. Илона стояла у большого окна на девятом этаже
отеля Holiday Inn. В глубине под окном лениво текла широкая коричневая тропическая река, как в книгах Джозефа
Конрада, которые она взяла с собой в путешествие и которые не могла дочитать. За рекой в зелени прятались лачуги -туземная деревня, - а за ней, из
бесконечного зеленого массива джунглей неожиданно устремлялось в небо высокое белое здание. - А в чем дело? – Илона повернулась от окна. – Я
думала, семинар начинается только завтра…
Она действительно думала, что семинар по распространению и продажам новых продуктов фирмы на местах только формальный повод, чтобы они с Илмари
могли сюда приехать вместе. Она не могла себе представить, что финские телефоны проникли даже сюда, на этот отдаленный остров на краю света.
В холле гостиницы, растерянно озираясь, Илона искала группу, с которой должна была отправиться на сегодняшнюю экскурсионную программу – обед в
ресторане национальной кухни и посещение воскресного рынка, пока Илмари будет готовиться к завтрашнему семинару.
- Вы госпожа Сааринен? – к ней подошел молодой человек в полотняных брюках, по виду ее ровесник.
Она усмехнулась. «Все еще впереди», - с озорством подумалось ей. Разумеется, здешняя секретарша Илмари заказала обслуживание на имя шефа. Правда,
она могла быть и младшей Сааринен, но Илона предпочла промолчать, и лишь улыбнулась.
- Куда сначала, на рынок или на обед? – спросил гид. Оказалось, что с ними больше никто не идет. Группа была она сама.
- На обед, - сказала Илона, вызвав явное удовольствие у гида.
- Я выбрал ресторан с самой настоящей мусульманской едой, - пояснил он, - а, кроме того, ресторан совсем рядом с рынком, так что мы увидим его
хотя бы из окна, потому что он уже скоро закроется.
Они пришли в ресторан, который скорее напоминал зачуханный Макдоналдс или буфет «Спутник» в Брно прошлых лет. Илона с жадностью посмотрела на
пульт самообслуживания, но гид подвел ее к столику.
- Я закажу вам фирменное блюдо, - объявил он с гордостью. Илона не слишком стремилась попробовать фирменное блюдо, с большим удовольствием она
пошла бы с Илмари в китайский ресторан, как в Куала-Лумпуре. Без всякого аппетита она ковырялась в соусе, из которого торчал куриный коготь.
За окном закрывался рынок, люди сворачивали палатки, убирали ощипанные куриные тушки и половинки поросят и коров, кое-кто с набитыми
полиэтиленовыми сумками садился на мотоцикл, родители с грудным ребенком уезжали домой, может, в джунгли, а может, на соседнюю улицу. В прицеп
другого мотоцикла торговец загружал непроданную одежду. Положив сверху упаковку зеленых футболок с черным портретом Усамы бен Ладена, он уехал.
Начался дождь.
- Что делаем сейчас? – спросила Илона как настоящая светская колониальная дама.
- Отведу вас в гостиницу, и вы свободны, - ответил гид.
- А Вы чем будете заниматься? – полюбопытствовала она и добавила, чтобы вопрос не звучал слишком навязчиво
или заинтересованно. – И вообще, чем здесь занимается большинство людей воскресными вечерами?
- Я в основном смотрю по телевизору индийские фильмы. Они длинные, иногда даже по пять часов, - хвастливо
произнес гид. Будто ненастным воскресным вечером, кроме как смотреть телевизор, можно делать что-то другое. На
Борнео, в Брно, в Праге, в Хельсинки...
- До гостиницы я сама доберусь, - сказала Илона, прощаясь с гидом перед рестораном. - Вы только покажите, в какую сторону идти.
Дождь уже перестал.
Рынок опустел удивительно быстро, только в открытом кафе на углу большого перекрестка сидели и пили чай несколько мужчин. На треножниках у
тротуара стояли два больших котла с остатками недавнего обеда, в углу под небольшим навесиком работал телевизор. Вероятно, сейчас должен был
начаться длинный индийский фильм…
Илона обошла круговой объезд с большой красно-белой скульптурой кошки посередине. За перекрестком она направилась по широкому проспекту,
окаймленному солидными домами с большими палисадниками. Она шла по пустынной воскресной улице. Сумерки воскресенья на Борнео были такими же, как в
Брно, – время как бы остановилось в оцепенении, дожидаясь вечера, чтобы потом с новой силой устремиться в пространство.
Дома становились меньше, а улицы оживленнее. Илона миновала бензоколонку, скорее даже бензоколоночку – одна стойка на тротуаре, керамическую
мастерскую с рядами выставленных мисок и ваз, китайскую аптеку, чем дальше, тем больше встречала в основном молодых людей с сумками и рюкзаками. Она
очутилась на автобусном вокзале.
Автобусный вокзал в воскресенье вечером она хорошо знала. Илона тоже часто возвращалась с сумками от родителей. Уже на пятьдесят первом километре
шоссе начинала думать о том, будет ли Томаш ждать ее на вокзале или нет, будет ли дома, был ли он действительно у матери, как утверждал, станет ли
опять упрекать ее, что не учится, что торчит за перегородкой в турагенстве, захочет ли он на ней когда-нибудь жениться или, наоборот, скоро попросит
Илону съехать с его квартиры…
За вокзалом была улочка, полная магазинчиков с одеждой. В Праге и Брно она воротила нос от китайских и вьетнамских магазинов, здесь же Илона с
любопытством вошла в такую «кишку» и купила себе экстравагантную черно-розовую футболку, там же в магазине надев ее вместо строгой блузки с
воротничком. У нее мгновенно улучшилось настроение, и бесцельные блуждания по городу обрели смысл. Фокус в том и состоял, что ее обыденная жизнь
протекала не здесь, поэтому она не ждет ни чешского, ни местного Томаша.
Наоборот, в роскошном отеле ее ждет Илмари, ее богатый финский друг с экзотическим загаром. Он намного старше… на столько старше, чтобы хотеть
только ее, Илону, и никакую другую.
Возвращаться в гостиницу она пока не хотела: Илмари еще подумает, будто она не может и секунды обойтись без него. Она села на террасе элегантного кафе на набережной тропической реки и заказала имбирный чай. Вытащив мобильник, стала
посылать эсэмэски. «Привет с Борнео, долетела хорошо», - сообщила она маме. «Уже четырнадцатый раз совершила перелет, пламенный привет с Борнео в
Брно», - написала она Лукашу, своему однокласснику, которого встретила в библиотеке, и пока она нажимала
на клавиши, ей пришло в голову, что Борнео – это почти как Брно, всего на две буковки длиннее.
Кому еще? Томашу? «Я на Борнео с новым другом, всего наилучшего?» Она бы с удовольствием так написала,
если бы неделю тому назад, когда они разошлись и она вернулась в Брно, Томаш не попал в аварию.
- Нет, я заплачу, - ответила Илона официантке, когда она подошла и предложила еще чаю. Илона сунула мобильник в сумочку и достала кошелек. Вдруг
ей показалось, что что-то было не так, как должно быть. Внезапно она поняла: на левой руке не хватает кольца. «Когда же оно было последний раз на
пальце? – ломала Илона голову, но не могла вспомнить. – Может, осталось в резиденции в Куала-Лумпуре. Может, соскользнуло где-нибудь в самолете или
в гостинице, а может, просто в ванной». Это было особенное колечко: золотой ободок с гранатовым листочком в середине. Вскоре после того, как она
переехала к Томашу, колечко ей подарила его сумасшедшая тетка. Илона не знала даже, драгоценное оно или просто побрякушка, но оно ей нравилось,
несмотря на то что было велико и она вынуждена была носить его на среднем пальце. Всё собиралась уменьшить колечко… Томаш же утверждал, что это
ценная семейная реликвия, и Илона, конечно, раз уж они расстались, собиралась его вернуть, но не успела… и не успеет – колечко исчезло. Ей было
неприятно, что таким образом вроде бы порвалась ниточка, связывавшая их с Томашем. Она могла пойти обратно той же дорогой, какой пришла сюда, может,
нашла бы подарок. Нет, вряд ли оно соскользнуло просто так, она его потеряла, чтобы больше не думать о прошлом.
Илона вошла в лифт, нажала на девятку и опять задрожала от холода. В отеле всюду исправно работали кондиционеры. Скорее бы оказаться в комнате,
где ее согреет Илмари, где она сможет снять футболку и все остальное тоже, сможет к нему прижаться и они будут любить друг друга. В этом тоже
крылась причина, почему она за этим почти незнакомым финном увязалась на край света. Ей очень нравилось, как он ее любил, но об этом Лукашу она не
сказала, когда говорила с ним о предстоящем путешествии на Борнео. Она постеснялась рассказать ему об обжигающих волнах и волнующих поцелуях, о
таких вещах можно рассказывать только подругам, но в Брно у нее не было ни одной подруги.
Илона вошла в комнату и тут же закрыла за собой дверь. Сняв неудобные лодочки, она огляделась в поисках записки от Илмари, а потом увидела самого
Илмари. Он лежал на постели одетый и спал. На ночном столике стояли стакан, наполовину выпитая бутылка пива и пустая сувенирная бутылочка коньяка из
мини-бара.
Илона разделась, закрылась в ванной и долго стояла под горячим душем. Она помыла голову, закуталась в мягкий, пушистый гостиничный халат, на
цыпочках вышла в комнату – Илмари еще спал, тяжело дыша. Уже начинало темнеть. Илона хотела снять халат и голышом прижаться к Илмари, но поняла, что
ничего не получится. Она подошла к окну и смотрела в темноту – на дождь и загорающиеся огни города в джунглях, далекого как от ее дома, так и от
домашнего очага Илмари. Она завидовала этим незнакомым людям за освещенными окнами в своих домах, которые сейчас поужинают, а завтра рано утром
опять пойдут на работу, а после работы в какое-нибудь кафе на набережной, потом вернутся домой, поужинают, утром снова встанут и пойдут на работу; в
воскресенье отправятся к морю, в джунгли или будут смотреть длинный индийский фильм. И эта скука и будничность вдруг представились Илоне заманчивой
и несбыточной мечтой, настоящей жизнью.
Она отошла от окна. Вынула из сумочки мобильник, но никаких сообщений не было, ни от Лукаша, ни от мамы. Это показалось Илоне странным и
неприятным, но она вспомнила, что дома, в Чехии, сейчас уже, возможно, ночь. Или еще. Она услышала, как Илмари за ее спиной зашевелился, спросонья
произнес какую-то непонятную фразу, вероятно по-фински, и зажег лампочку над постелью. Илона повернулась к нему, сняла халат и нагишом юркнула к
Илмари: захотелось поиграть в домашний очаг, воскресный вечер за освещенным окном или хотя бы в любовь перед ужином.
Парковка перед «Икеа» была заполнена машинами, людьми, шумом. Солнце золотило желтеющие листья на деревьях в лесопарке неподалеку. Была суббота,
первая суббота после каникул. Погода не могла решить, то ли продолжить лето, то ли начать уже осень. «Что если я подожду тебя в машине?» - чуть не
сорвалось с языка Илоны, когда мама наконец припарковалась, но она промолчала. Мама, разумеется, рассердилась бы, потому что они приехали сюда из-за
нее, Илоны. Да и в машине делать было нечего: почитать она с собой ничего не взяла, но вряд ли она скучала бы, потому что могла снова и снова читать
сообщение, которое ночью пришло ей от Илмари. Она быстро вынула мобильник. Она еще раз прочтет сообщение, наберется сил для забега с тележкой по «Теско»
и «Икеа» - любимого занятия мамы, и увидела, что пришло новое сообщение. Опять от Илмари, опять то же длинное предложение, которое она должна была
прочесть дважды, чтобы понять. Все лето Илмари молчал, и Илона уже решила, что все кончено и что бассейн под пальмами и резиденцию в лучшем
квартале Куала-Лумпура можно теперь только вспоминать или вовсе забыть.
Но сейчас отвечать Илмари она не будет. Такие вещи не решаются на парковке. Илона побежала вслед за матерью, уже стоявшей под навесом с тележками
и шарившей в кошельке в поисках монеты в десять крон.
Однако радость ее неожиданно испарилась. Из красной машины около самого навеса на Илону неподвижным взглядом смотрела пожилая женщина. Илона
ускорила шаг (мама уже устремилась с тележкой ко входу), но, устыдившись, сделала пару шагов назад. «Вряд ли это может быть тетушка Томаша», -
попыталась убедить себя Илона, но знала, что может. Ведь странная тетушка жила в Брно, так что встретить ее здесь было вполне возможным.
- Добрый день, - сказала Илона и, попробовав улыбнуться, кивнула головой, но женщина упрямо глядела перед собой. Она смотрела на мельтешение
машин за стеклом как на начало захватывающего фильма. Все начинается весело, активно и оптимистически, драма и трагедия разыграются потом, пока они
скрываются, поджидают в будущем, но обязательно придут, так всегда было и будет, теперь в последний раз с Томашем…
«Так это не тетя, или… просто она меня не узнала», - с облегчением решила Илона, но вдруг подумала: а нет ли здесь случайно Томаша? Это, пожалуй,
маловероятно. Если бы она увидела Томаша, идущего ей навстречу, может, ее перестали бы мучить смутные угрызения совести: не должна ли она была
вернуться к Томашу после его травмы. А что если бы он не шел ей навстречу, а передвигался на костылях или на коляске?
- Мне правда ничего не понравилось, - сказала Илона, как бы извиняясь и упрямясь одновременно, когда они складывали покупки в богажник, - а
главное, мебель ведь мне не нужна…
- Знаешь что, машину теперь поведешь ты, - сказала мама раздраженно. «Чтобы эта субботняя суматоха имела хоть какой-то смысл», - добавила она уже
про себя, не вслух.
Дочь ее нервировала. Уже больше полугода она опять жила вместе с ними, в своей прежней детской комнате в панельном доме на Лесной (на Лесне). Не
было похоже, чтобы она что-либо искала – самостоятельное жилье, нового приятеля или приличную работу.
В библиотеке ей нравилось. «Там тишина и покой», - оборонялась Илона, когда мама упрекала ее в том, что она не готовится к поступлению в
институт, не ищет более интересную или лучше оплачиваемую работу. «Там тишина и покой! И это говорит двадцатичетырехлетняя девушка! Мой ребенок».
Мама устыдилась своего раздражения, но, несмотря на это, не могла смириться с непонятной для нее пассивностью. В этом отношении Илона пошла не в
нее.
- На круговом перекрестке ты должна пропустить. Хорошо, теперь поезжай налево и потом на шоссе, - примирительно подсказывала она дочери.
Илона водила плохо. Все время смотрела на рычаг переключения скоростей и забывала взглянуть на зеркало заднего вида. «Некоторых матерей возят
дети, потому что водят лучше родителей» - с сожалением подумала мама, но не слишком заморачиваясь.
Мама взяла сумочку и незаметно посмотрела на телефон: никаких непринятых звонков, никаких сообщений. В шуме торгового зала она могла не услышать
сигнала. Мама нервничала еще и из-за того, что давно не было связи с Фреди.
«Связи… почему я сама себе не могу признаться, мое тело не может признаться моей душе, что мы уже давно не любили друг друга. Давно? Неужели
неделя – давно?»
«Это в последний раз», - сказала она себе, когда все случилось впервые. Но они встречались уже несколько недель. Они с Фреди по крутым ступеням
поднимались на четвертый этаж жилого дома с открытой галереей в отвратительном квартале около вокзала. Начиная со второго этажа на лестнице не горел
свет, и, вероятно, поэтому Рената была ослеплена, когда Фреди открыл дверь и они вошли внутрь, в большую комнату с кроватью, которую с самого начала
она бессознательно восприняла как его рабочее место. Комнату, не кровать, представлявшую собой дешевое кресло-кровать в разложенном виде. Она не
знала, что ее привлекало больше: яркий свет внутри или эта темень вокруг, опасная тьма, сквозь которую она пробиралась, чтобы… чтобы совершить грех,
чтобы предаться пороку, чтобы быть любовницей Фреди или скорее для того, чтобы больше не быть примерной и покорной, а иногда и обиженной, затюканной
женой заместителя главного врача? Нет, пробиралась не для того, чтобы быть любовницей. Да и вообще никуда не пробиралась. Просто припарковалась
перед домом. И только на старых стертых ступенях обшарпанной лестницы ей пришло в голову, что эти несколько улиц, известных тем, что здесь цыгане
воруют машины, недаром называют брненским Бронксом и что напрасно она приехала сюда на машине, потому что не сможет выпить вина. Ведь Фреди
пригласил ее на бокал вина. Разумеется, Рената прекрасно знала, что его приглашение означает не только опьянение вином и пьяняще сладкие слова, как
было до сих пор, но и опьяняюще порочные и возбуждающие прикосновения и поцелуи.
Каждая предыдущая встреча с Фреди окутывала ее волшебным плащом, защищая от всяких жизненных неурядиц: от скуки однообразных будней, от не
имеющих значения и тем более бесполезных перебранок с мужем, от раннего вставания и морщин, которые на нее пялились в зеркале, от равнодушия и
безразличия врачей, которые, не скрываясь, говорили о поездках в Альпы и даже не изображали заинтересованность в ее лекарствах… Она скользнула в
волшебный плащ, и все изменилось - будни наполнились радостью и энергией, возвращение к мужу и безропотной жизни было определенно привлекательным…
И когда, впервые скользнув под волшебный плащ, Рената смогла укрыться от будничной повседневности, именно в этот момент Фреди начал ее раздевать
и Рената осталась. Сейчас, вспоминая об этом, она почувствовала, как по всему телу распространялись волны наслаждения, от кончиков пальцев вверх по
ногам, по телу до самых сосков. Или волны распространялись сверху, и сигнал посылал мозг, душа, как привет телу?
«Это последний раз, наверно, я не должна сюда больше ходить», - говорила она себе, когда после всего Фреди вел ее по крутым ступеням вниз к
машине, но чем дальше, тем чаще приходила. И неделя показалась слишком долгой!
«Всё о Фреди да о Фреди, а что собственно я знаю о дочери? - очнувшись от размышлений, подумала Рената. – Живем вместе, а почти не знаем друг
друга, никогда не говорим о чем-то важном, только о пустяках: кто что купит, кто вынесет мусор», - пожалела мама себя и дочку и повернулась к ней,
но вместо растроганного взгляда, возникло раздражение, и ее охватило беспокойство: «Почему Илона едет так медленно?» Сзади ее подпирала серебристая
«октавия» и как сумасшедшая сигналила.
- Не можешь немного быстрее? Ты создаешь пробку, - набросилась Рената на дочь, но тут же устыдилась. «Ведь это все же мой ребенок», - в который
раз за сегодняшний день сказала она себе. – С Фреди я так раздраженно не разговаривала бы». Она даже не представляла, что может повысить на него
голос. «Но ведь это совсем другое, или нет?»
Начинало темнеть. Движение в субботу вечером в городе уже не было столь интенсивным. Меняться местами не имело смысла.
- Ты видела его тетю, да? Странная женщина, - произнесла мама.
- А ты разве ее знаешь? Не уверена, что это была она, во всяком случае, делала вид, что меня не видит. Томаша ведь там не было, правда? –
всполошилась вдруг Илона. Она даже забыла, что мама однажды везла тетю Томаша в Прагу, а когда Томаш потом попал в аварию, его тетя звонила маме и
кричала, что Илона должна вернуться к Томашу, но мама тогда Илоне об этом ничего не сказала.
- Я его не видела, - ответила мама. Она слегка замялась. Рената никогда не спрашивала Илону, почему они с Томашем разошлись после пяти лет
совместной жизни, не решилась и теперь.
- Этот раскладывающийся диван за шесть тысяч тебе не понравился? – перевела Рената разговор на пустяки.
- Мама, мне раскладной диван не нужен, ни к чему, - тихо ответила Илона, глядя перед собой. Она остановилась, потом зажегся зеленый, к счастью,
навстречу никто не ехал. Илона съехала влево. Через минуту они уже будут дома, но, несмотря на это, она бы с радостью уступила место за рулем
матери, однако побоялась предложить ей поменяться.
- Почему не нужен? – удивилась мама. – А может ты и права. Я хотела с тобой поговорить об ипотеке…
- Если уж на то пошло, мне больше нужен компьютор, - перебила ее Илона.
- Компьютор? Зачем? – не поняла мама. – Ты можешь пользоваться моим служебным, он у меня все равно только для почты, а ею я занимаюсь вечером. А,
ну да, у меня же там нет игр, но их запросто может поставить Лукаш, - снисходительно предложила она дочери.
- Мама, знаешь что, - тихо произнесла Илона. Ей хотелось сказать: «Мама, знаешь что, иди к черту, мне нужен компьютор не для игр, а для того,
чтобы переписываться со своим другом, директором филиала фирмы в Куала-Лумпуре».
- Я выхожу замуж, - сказала она громко, решившись вот так вдруг. – Он финн, ему сорок восемь лет, это к нему я ездила в Малайзию, потому что он
там работает, у него огромная резиденция, обустроенная по высшему разряду. Я собираюсь там с ним жить, а потом и в других местах, мы будем ездить по
миру, возможно, когда-нибудь будем жить и в Праге. У него есть дочь от первого брака, но я к ней не буду иметь никакого отношения – она живет в
Финляндии. Не волнуйся, он развелся не из-за меня, - разоткровенничалась Илона, и всё говорила, говорила, а мама молчала и слушала, будто именно
теперь они стали матерью и дочерью, сейчас, после страшно долгого времени, они говорили о важных вещах.
Илоне неожиданно стало необычайно легко. Будто все проблемы постепенно отпадали, исчезали и проваливались в неизвестность: странная тетя, к
которой Томаш иногда должен был ездить (а она, как-то разыскивая его, позвонила, и все раскрылось). Несчастный случай с ним, Илонино унизительное
возвращение в Брно, потерянное колечко, странное лето, когда время будто бы остановилось и колебалось, не вернуться ли на несколько лет назад, к
пристальному взгляду мужчины в белом пиджаке. И во всем этом повинно сообщение, которое ей сегодня уже дважды послал Илмари: «Без тебя здесь грустно
и пусто, мне тебя не хватает, приезжай и выходи за меня замуж».
- А ты Томаша не спрашивала о той другой? – удивилась мама.
- Нет, ведь это… - Илона взглянула на мать краешком глаза, - ведь это теперь не важно, - весело махнула она рукой, ей даже не хотелось вспоминать,
как она не могла спать, мучилась ревностью, которая ей была совершенно несвойственна. «Мама этого, конечно, не понимает. Мама бы никогда не
позволила, чтобы с ней кто-нибудь обращался так, как Томаш со мной, - подумала Илона. – Мама бы никогда не допустила, чтобы ее кто-то таким образом
бросил. Мама бы не оставила никого, с кем произошел бы несчастный случай. Может, мама успешная женщина, - сказала себе Илона на этот раз без тени
жалости или иронии. – Я тоже буду успешной. И счастливой. У меня будет своя жизнь. Со второй попытки. – Илона осеклась. – Нет, какая попытка? То,
что было, не считается. У меня будет собственная жизнь».
- Его зовут Илмари, и вы скоро его увидите, он приедет в Брно, - сказала Илона, когда они уже сворачивали с трассы к парковке перед домом. К
счастью, там оказалось место, куда можно было легко влезть.
- Вот видишь, складной диван как раз бы пригодился, - засмеялась мама и вышла из машины.
- Может, и правда, - снисходительно согласилась Илона. Она не хотела поучать маму и объяснять ей, что директора Фирмы спят в апартаментах
роскошных отелей, и не на раскладном диване в маленькой комнатке за кухней в панельном доме.
Дома Илона вынула мобильник, вызвала сообщение Илмари. «Yes», - набрала она ответ, задумалась, но потом,
ничего не добавив, нажала «Отправить».
Translated from Czech into Russian by Olga Akbulatova. |