Nobody Will Laugh

  Nobody Will Laugh

  by Milan Kundera

  from Laughable Loves

  This translation 1999 Aaron Asher

  1

  "Pour me some more slivovitz," said Klara, and I wasn't against it. It was hardly unusual for us to open a bottle, and this time there was a genuine excuse for it: that day I had received a nice fee from an art history review for a long essay.

  Publishing the essay hadn't been so easy�what Id written was polemical and controversial. That's why my essay had previously been rejected by Visual Arts, where the editors were old and cautious, and had then finally been published in a less important periodical, where the editors were younger and less reflective.

  The mailman brought the payment to me at the university along with another letter, an unimportant letter; in the morning in the first flush of beatitude I had hardly read it. But now, at home, when it was approaching midnight and the bottle was nearly empty, I took it off the table to amuse us.

  "Esteemed comrade and�if you will permit the expression�my colleague!" I read aloud to Klara. "Please excuse me, a man whom you have never met, for writing to you. I am turning to you with a request that you read the enclosed article. True, I do not know you, but I respect you as a man whose judgments, reflections, and conclusions astonish me by their agreement with the results of my own research; I am completely amazed by it. ..." There followed greater praise of my merits and then a request: Would I kindly write a review of his article�that is, a specialist's evaluation�for Visual Arts, which had been underestimating and rejecting his article for more than six months. People had told him that my opinion would be decisive, so now I had become the writer's only hope, a single light in otherwise total darkness.

  We made fun of Mr. Zaturecky, whose aristocratic name fascinated us; but it was just fun, fun that meant no harm, for the praise he had lavished on me, along with the excellent slivovitz, softened me. It softened me so much that in those unforgettable moments I loved the whole world. And because at that moment I didn't have anything to reward the world with, I rewarded Klara. At least with promises.

  Klara was a twenty-year-old girl from a good family. What am I saying, from a good family? From an excellent family! Her father had been a bank manager, and around 1950, as a representative of the upper bourgeoisie, was exiled to the village of Celakovice, some distance from Prague. As a result his daughter's party record was bad, and she had to work as a seamstress in a large Prague dressmaking establishment. I was now sitting opposite this beautiful seamstress and trying to make her like me more by telling her lightheartedly about the advantages of a job I'd promised to get her through connections. I assured her that it was absurd for such a pretty girl to lose her beauty at a sewing machine, and I decided that she should become a model.

  Klara didn't object, and we spent the night in happy understanding.

  2

  We pass through the present with our eyes blindfolded. We are permitted merely to sense and guess at what we are actually experiencing. Only later when the cloth is untied can we glance at the past and find out what we have experienced and what meaning it has.

  That evening I thought I was drinking to my successes and didn't in the least suspect that it was the prelude to my undoing.

  And because I didn't suspect anything I woke up the next day in a good mood, and while Klara was still breathing contentedly by my side, I took the article, which was attached to the letter, and skimmed through it with amused indifference.

  It was called "Mikolas Ales, Master of Czech Drawing," and it really wasn't worth even the half hour of inattention I devoted to it. It was a collection of platitudes jumbled together with no sense of continuity and without the least intention of advancing through them some original thought.

  Quite clearly it was pure nonsense. The very same day Dr. Kalousek, the editor of Visual Arts (in other respects an unusually unpleasant man), confirmed my opinion over the telephone; he called me at the university: "Say, did you get that treatise from the Zaturecky guy? Then review it. Five lecturers have already cut him to pieces, but he keeps on bugging us; he's got it into his head that you're the only genuine authority. Say in two sentences that it's crap; you know how to do that, you know how to be really venomous; and then we'll all have some peace."

  But something inside me protested: why should I have to be Mr. Zaturecky's executioner? Was I the one receiving an editor's salary for this? Besides, I remembered very well that they had refused my essay at Visual Arts out of overcautiousness; what's more, Mr. Zaturecky's name was firmly connected in my mind with Klara, slivovitz, and a beautiful evening. And finally, I won't deny it, it's human�I could have counted on one finger the people who think me "a genuine authority": why should I lose this only one?

  I closed the conversation with some clever vaguery, which Kalousek considered a promise and I an excuse. I put down the receiver firmly convinced that I would never write the piece on Mr. Zaturecky's article.

  Instead I took some paper out of the drawer and wrote a letter to Mr. Zaturecky, in which I avoided any kind of judgment of his work, excusing myself by saying that my opinions on nineteenth-century art were commonly considered devious and eccentric, and therefore my intercession�especially with the editors of Visual Arts�would harm rather than benefit his cause. At the same time I overwhelmed Mr. Zaturecky with friendly loquacity, from which it was impossible not to detect sympathy on my part.

  As soon as I had put the letter in the mailbox I forgot Mr. Zaturecky. But Mr. Zaturecky did not forget me.

  3

  One day when I was about to end my lecture�I am an art history lecturer at the university�there was a knock at the door; it was our secretary, Marie, a kind elderly lady who occasionally prepares coffee for me and says I'm out when there are undesirable female voices on the telephone. She put her head in the doorway and said that a gentleman was looking for me.

  I'm not afraid of gentlemen, and so I took leave of the students and went good-humoredly out into the corridor. A smallish man in a shabby black suit and a white shirt bowed to me. He very respectfully informed me that he was Zaturecky.

  I invited the visitor into an empty room, offered him a chair, and began pleasantly discussing everything possible with him, for instance what a bad summer it was and what exhibitions were on in Prague. Mr. Zaturecky politely agreed with all my chatter, but he soon tried to apply every remark of mine to his article, which lay invisibly between us like an irresistible magnet.

  "Nothing would make me happier than to write a review of your work," I said finally, "but as I explained to you in the letter, I am not considered an expert on the Czech nineteenth century, and in addition I'm on bad terms with the editors of Visual Arts, who take me for a hardened modernist, so a positive review from me could only harm you."

  "Oh, you're too modest," said Mr. Zaturecky. "How can you, who are such an expert, judge your own standing so blackly! In the editorial office they told me that everything depends on your review. If you support my article they'll publish it. You're my only recourse. It's the work of three years of study and three years of toil. Everything is now in your hands."

  How carelessly and from what bad masonry does a man build his excuses! I didn't know how to answer Mr. Zaturecky. I involuntarily looked at his face and noticed there not only small, ancient, and innocent spectacles staring at me, but also a powerful, deep vertical wrinkle on his forehead. In a brief moment of clairvoyance a shiver shot down my spine: This wrinkle, concentrated and stubborn, betrayed not only the intellectual torment its owner had gone through over Mikolas Ales's drawings, but also unusually strong willpower. I lost my presence of mind and failed to find any clever excuse. I knew that I wouldn't write the review, but I also knew that I didn't have the strengt
h to say so to this pathetic little man's face.

  And then I began to smile and make vague promises. Mr. Zaturecky thanked me and said that he would come again soon. We parted smiling.

  In a couple of days he did come. I cleverly avoided him, but the next day I was told that he was searching for me again at the university. I realized that bad times were on the way. I went quickly to Marie so as to take appropriate steps.

  "Marie dear, I beg you, if that man should come looking for me again, say that I've gone to do some research in Germany and I'll be back in a month. And you should know about this: I have, as you know, all my lectures on Tuesday and Wednesday. I'll shift them secretly to Thursday and Friday. Only the students will know about this. Don't tell anyone, and leave the schedule uncorrected. I'll have to go underground."

  4

  In fact Mr. Zaturecky did soon come back to look me up and was miserable when the secretary informed him that I'd suddenly gone off to Germany. "But this is not possible. The lecturer has to write a review about me. How could he go away like this?" "I don't know," said Marie. "However, he'll be back in a month." "Another month . . . ," moaned Mr. Zaturecky: "And you don't know his address in Germany?" "I don't," said Marie.

  And then I had a month of peace.

  But the month passed more quickly than I expected, and Mr. Zaturecky stood once again in the office. "No, he still hasn't returned," said Marie, and when she met me later about something she asked me imploringly: "Your little man was here again, what in heaven's name should I tell him?" "Tell him, Marie, that I got jaundice and I'm in the hospital in Jena." "In the hospital!" cried Mr. Zaturecky, when Marie told him the story a few days later. "It's not possible 1 Don't you know that the lecturer has to write a review about me!" "Mr. Zaturecky," said the secretary reproachfully, "the lecturer is lying in a hospital somewhere abroad seriously ill, and you think only about your review." Mr. Zaturecky backed down and went away, but two weeks later he was once again in the office: "I sent a registered letter to the lecturer at the hospital in Jena. The letter came back to me!" "Your little man is driving me crazy," said Marie to me the next day. "You mustn't get angry with me, but what could I say? I told him that you've come back. You have to deal with him yourself now."

  I didn't get angry with Marie. She had done what she could. Besides, I was far from considering myself beaten. I knew that I was not to be caught. I lived undercover all the time. I lectured secretly on Thursday and Friday, and every Tuesday and Wednesday, crouching in the doorway of a house opposite the art history faculty, I would rejoice at the sight of Mr. Zaturecky, who kept watch outside the faculty building waiting for me to come out. I longed to put on a bowler hat and a false beard. I felt like Sherlock Holmes, like Mr. Hyde, like the Invisible Man wending his way through the city; I felt like a little boy.

  One day, however, Mr. Zaturecky finally got tired of keeping watch and pounced on Marie. "Where exactly does Comrade Lecturer lecture?"

  "There's the schedule," said Marie, pointing to the wall, where the times of all the lectures were laid out in exemplary fashion in a large grid.

  "I see that," said Mr. Zaturecky, refusing to be put off. "Only Comrade Lecturer never lectures here on either Tuesday or Wednesday. Does he call in sick?"

  "No," said Marie hesitantly.

  And then the little man turned again on Marie. He reproached her for the confusion in the schedule. He inquired ironically how it was that she didn't know where every teacher was at a given time. He told her that he was going to complain about her. He shouted. He said that he was also going to complain about Comrade Lecturer, who wasn't lecturing, although he was supposed to be. He asked if the dean was in.

  Unfortunately the dean was in.

  Mr. Zaturecky knocked on his door and went in. Ten minutes later he returned to Marie's office and demanded my address.

  "Twenty Skalnikova Street, in Litomysl," said Marie.

  "Litomysl?"

  "The lecturer has only a temporary address in Prague, and he doesn't want it disclosed�"

  "I'm asking you to give me the address of the lecturer's Prague apartment," cried the little man in a trembling voice.

  Somehow Marie lost her presence of mind. She gave him the address of my attic, my poor little refuge, my sweet den, in which I would be caught.

  5

  Yes, my permanent address is in Litomysl; there I have my mother and memories of my father; I flee from Prague as often as I can and write at home in my mother's small apartment. So it happened that I kept my mother's apartment as my permanent residence and in Prague didn't manage to get myself a proper bachelor apartment, as you're supposed to, but lived in lodgings, in a small, completely private attic, whose existence I concealed as much as possible in order to prevent unnecessary meetings between undesirable guests and my transient female visitors.

  For precisely these reasons I didn't enjoy the best reputation in the house. Also, during my stays in Litomysl I had several times lent my cozy little room to friends, who amused themselves only too well there, not allowing anyone in the house to get a wink of sleep. All this scandalized some of the tenants, who conducted a quiet war against me. Sometimes they had the local committee express unfavorable opinions of me, and they even handed in a complaint to the housing department.

  At that time it was inconvenient for Klara to get to work from such a distance as Celakovice, and so she began to stay overnight at my place. At first she stayed timidly and as an exception, then she left one dress, then several dresses, and within a short time my two suits were crammed into a corner of the wardrobe, and my little room was transformed into a woman's boudoir.

  I really liked Klara; she was beautiful; it pleased me that people turned their heads when we went out together; she was at least thirteen years younger than me, which increased the students' respect for me; I had a thousand reasons for taking good care of her. But I didn't want it to be known that she was living with me. I was afraid of rumors and gossip about us in the house; I was afraid that someone would start attacking my good old landlord, who was discreet and didn't concern himself about me; I was afraid that one day he would come to me, unhappy and with a heavy heart, and ask me to send the young lady away for the sake of his good name.

  Klara had strict orders not to open the door to anyone.

  One day she was alone in the house. It was a sunny day and rather stuffy in the attic. She was lounging almost naked on my couch, occupying herself with an examination of the ceiling.

  Suddenly there was a pounding on the door.

  There was nothing alarming in this. I didn't have a bell, so anyone who came had to knock. Klara wasn't going to let herself be disturbed by the noise and didn't stop examining the ceiling. But the pounding didn't cease; on the contrary it went on with imperturbable persistence. Klara was getting nervous. She began to imagine a man standing behind the door, a man who slowly and significantly turns up the lapels of his jacket, and who will later pounce on her demanding why she hadn't opened the door, what she was concealing, and whether she was registered at this address. A feeling of guilt seized her; she lowered her eyes from the ceiling and tried to think where she had left her dress. But the pounding continued so stubbornly that in the confusion she found nothing but my raincoat hanging in the hall. She put it on and opened the door.

  Instead of an evil, querying face, she saw only a little man, who bowed. "Is the lecturer at home?"

  "No, he isn't." "That's a pity," said the little man, and he apologized for having disturbed her. "The thing is that the lecturer has to write a review about me. He promised me, and it's very urgent. If you would permit it, I could at least leave him a message." Klara gave him paper and pencil, and in the evening I read that the fate of the article about Mikolas Ales was in my hands alone, and that Mr. Zaturecky was waiting most respectfully for my review and would try to look me up again at the university.

  6

  The next day Marie told me how Mr. Zaturecky had threatened her, and how he had gone to c
omplain about her; her voice trembled, and she was on the verge of tears; I flew into a rage. I realized that the secretary, who until now had been laughing at my game of hide-and-seek (though I would have bet anydiing that she did what she did out of kindness toward me, rather than simply from a sense of fun), was now feeling hurt and conceivably saw me as the cause of her troubles. When I also included the exposure of my attic, the ten-minute pounding on the door, and Klara's fright�my anger grew to a frenzy.

  As I was walking back and forth in Marie's office, biting my lips, boiling with rage, and thinking about revenge, the door opened and Mr. Zaturecky appeared.

  When he saw me a glimmer of happiness flashed over his face. He bowed and greeted me.

  He had come a little prematurely, before I had managed to consider my revenge. He asked if I had received his message yesterday.

  I was silent.

  He repeated his question.

  "I received it," I replied.

  "And will you please write the review?"

  I saw him in front of me: sickly, obstinate, beseeching; I saw the vertical wrinkle etched on his forehead, the line of a single passion; I examined this line and grasped that it was a straight line determined by two points: his article and my review; that beyond the vice of this maniacal straight line nothing existed in his life but saintly asceticism. And then a spiteful trick occurred to me.

  "I hope you understand that after yesterday I can't speak to you," I said.

  "I don't understand you."

  "Don't pretend; she told me everything. You don't have to deny it."

  "I don't understand you," repeated the little man, this time more decidedly.

  I assumed a genial, almost friendly tone. "Look here, Mr. Zaturecky, I don't blame you. I am also a womanizer, and I understand you. In your position I would have tried to seduce a beautiful girl like that, if I'd found myself alone in an apartment with her and she'd been naked beneath a man's raincoat."

  "This is an outrage!" The little man turned pale.

  "No, it's the truth, Mr. Zaturecky."

  "Did the lady tell you this?"

  "She has no secrets from me."

  "Comrade Lecturer, this is an outrage! I'm a married man. I have a wife! I have children!" The little man took a step forward so that I had to step back.

  "So much the worse for you, Mr. Zaturecky."

  "What do you mean, so much the worse?"

  "I think being married is an aggravating circumstance for a womanizer."

  "Take that back!" said Mr. Zaturecky menacingly.

  "Well, all right," I conceded. "The matrimonial state need not always be an aggravating circumstance. Sometimes it can, on the contrary, excuse a womanizer. But it makes no difference. I've already told you that I'm not angry with you, and I understand you quite well. There's only one thing I don't understand. How can you still want a review from a man whose woman you've been trying to make?"