The Golden Apple of Eternal Desire Read online

  The Golden Apple of Eternal Desire

  by Milan Kundera

  from Laughable Loves

  This translation 1999 Aaron Asher

  The Golden

  Apple of Eternal

  Desire

  . . . they do not know that they seek only the chase and not the quarry.

  �Blaise Pascal

  Martin

  Martin is able to do something I'm incapable of. Stop any woman on any street. I must say that during the long time I've known him I've greatly profited from this skill of his, for I like women as much as he does, but I wasn't granted his reckless audacity. On the other hand, Martin committed the error of reducing accosting to an exercise of virtuosity as an end in itself. And so he used to say, not without a certain bitterness, that he was like a soccer forward who unselfishly passes unstoppable balls to his teammate, who then kicks easy goals and reaps cheap glory.

  Last Monday afternoon after work I was waiting for him in a cafe on Vaclav Square, looking through a thick German book on Etruscan culture. It had taken several months for the university library to negotiate its loan from Germany, and now that it had finally come just that day, I carried it off as if it were a relic, and I was actually quite pleased that Martin had kept me waiting, and that I could leaf through the book I'd long wanted at a cafe table.

  Whenever I think about ancient cultures nostalgia seizes me. Perhaps this is nothing but envy of the sweet slowness of the history of that time. The era of ancient Egyptian culture lasted for several thousand years; the era of Greek antiquity for almost a thousand. In this respect, a single human life imitates the history of mankind; at first it is plunged into immobile slowness, and then only gradually does it accelerate more and more. Just two months ago Martin had turned forty.

  The Adventure Begins

  It was he who disturbed my thoughtful mood. He appeared suddenly at the glass door of the cafe and headed for me, making expressive gestures and grimaces in the direction of a table at which a woman was sitting over a cup of coffee. Without taking his eyes off her, he sat down beside me and said: "What do you say about that?"

  I felt humiliated; I'd actually been so engrossed in my thick volume that only now did I notice the girl; I had to admit that she was pretty. And at that moment the girl straightened up and called the man with the black bow tie, saying that she wished to pay.

  "Pay too!" Martin ordered me.

  We thought that we would have to run after the girl, but luckily she was detained at the cloakroom. She had left a shopping bag there, and the cloakroom attendant had to hunt for a while before placing it on the counter in front of the girl. As the girl gave the cloakroom attendant some coins, Martin snatched the German book out of my hands.

  "It will be better to put it in here," he said with daredevil nonchalance, and slipped the book carefully into the girl's bag. The girl looked surprised, but she didn't know what she was supposed to say.

  "It's uncomfortable to carry in one's hand," continued Martin, and when the girl went to pick up the bag herself, he told me off for not knowing how to behave.

  The young woman was a nurse in a country hospital. She was in Prague, she said, only for a look around and was hurrying off to the bus terminal. The short distance to the streetcar stop was enough for us to say everything essential and to agree that on Saturday we would come to the town of B. to visit this lovely young woman, who, as Martin meaningfully pointed out, would certainly have a pretty colleague join us.

  The streetcar arrived. I handed the young woman her bag, and she began to take the book out of it, but Martin prevented her with a grand gesture, saying we would come for it on Saturday, and that she should read through it carefully in the meantime. The young woman smiled in a bewildered fashion, the streetcar carried her away, and we waved.

  Nothing could be done; the book, which I'd been looking forward to for so long, suddenly found itself in a faraway place; when you came to think of it it was quite annoying; but nonetheless a certain lunacy happily uplifted me on the wings it promptly provided.

  Martin immediately began thinking about how to make an excuse for Saturday afternoon and night to his young wife (for this is how things stand: at home he has a young wife; and what is worse, he loves her; and what is still worse, he is afraid of her; and what is far worse still, he is anxious about her).

  A Successful Sighting

  For our excursion I borrowed a neat little Fiat, and on Saturday at two o'clock I drove up in front of Martin's apartment building; Martin was waiting for me and we set off. It was July and oppressively hot.

  We wanted to get to B. as soon as possible, but when we saw, in a village through which we were driving, two young men only in swim trunks and with eloquently wet hair, I stopped the car. The lake was actually not far away, a few paces, a mere stone's throw. I needed to be refreshed; Martin was also for swimming.

  We changed into our swim trunks and leaped into the water. I swam quickly to the other side. Martin, however, barely took a dip, washed himself off, and came out again. When I'd had a good swim and returned to shore, I caught sight of him in a state of intent absorption. On the shore a crowd of kids was yelling, somewhere farther off the local young people were playing soccer, but Martin was staring at the sturdy little figure of a young girl, who was perhaps fifteen meters away with her back toward us. Totally motionless, she was observing the water.

  "Look," said Martin.

  "I am looking."

  "And what do you say?"

  "What should I say?"

  "You don't know what you should say about that?"

  "Well have to wait until she turns around," I suggested.

  "Not at all. We don't have to wait until she turns around. What's showing from this side is quite enough for me."

  "Okay. But we don't have the time to spend with her."

  "A sighting, a sighting," said Martin, and turned to a little boy a short distance away who was putting on his swim trunks: "Say, kid, do you know the name of that girl over there?" and he pointed to the girl, who, apparently in some curious state of apathy, went on standing in the same position.

  "That one there?"

  "Yes, that one there."

  "That one isn't from around here," said the little boy.

  Martin turned to a little girl of about twelve, who was sunbathing close by.

  "Say, kid, do you know who that girl over there is, the one standing at the edge of the water?"

  The little girl obediently sat up. "That one there?"

  "Yes, that one."

  "That's Marie�"

  "Marie? Marie who?"

  "Marie Panek, from Traplice."

  And the girl still stood with her back to us, looking at the water. Now she bent down for her bathing cap, and when she straightened up again, putting it on her head as she did so, Martin was already at my side saying: "That's Marie Panek from Traplice. Now we can drive on.

  He was completely calmed and satisfied, and obviously no longer thinking of anything but the rest of the journey.

  A Little Theory

  That's what Martin calls sighting. From his vast experience, he has come to the conclusion that it is not as difficult, for someone with high numerical requirements, to seduce a girl as it is to know enough girls one hasn't yet seduced.

  Therefore he asserts that it is necessary always, no matter where, and at every opportunity, systematically to sight women, that is, to record in a notebook or in our memories the names of women who have attracted us and whom we could one day board.

  Boarding is a higher level of activity and means that we will get in touch with a particular woman, make her acquaintance, and gain access to her.

  He who
likes to look back boastfully will stress the names of the women he's made love to; but he who looks forward, toward the future, must above all see to it that he has plenty of women sighted and boarded.

  Over and above boarding there exists only one last level of activity, and I am happy to point out, in deference to Martin, that those who do not go after anything but this last level are wretched, primitive men, who remind me of village soccer players pressing forward thoughtlessly toward the other team's goal, forgetting that it is not enough to score a goal (and many goals) out of the frenetic desire of the kicker, but that it is first necessary to play a conscientious and systematic game on the field.

  "Do you think you'll go look her up in Traplice sometime?" I asked Martin, when we were driving again.

  "You never know," said Martin.

  Then I said: "In any case the day is beginning propitiously for us."

  Game and Necessity

  We arrived at the hospital in B. in excellent spirits. It was about three-thirty. We called our nurse on the phone in the lobby. Before long she came down in her cap and white uniform; 1 noticed that she was blushing, and I took this to be a good sign.

  Martin began to talk right away, and the girl informed us that she finished work at seven and that we should wait for her at that time in front of the hospital.

  "Have you already arranged it with your girlfriend?" asked Martin, and the girl nodded.

  "Yes, we'll both be there."

  "Fine," said Martin, "but we can't confront my colleague here with a fait accompli."

  "Okay," said the girl, "we can drop in on her; she's in the surgery ward."

  As we walked slowly across the hospital courtyard I shyly said: "I wonder if you still have that thick book?"

  The nurse nodded, saying that she did, and in fact it was right here at the hospital. A weight fell from my heart, and I insisted that we had to get it first.

  Of course it seemed improper to Martin that I should openly give preference to a book over a woman about to be presented to me, but I just couldn't help it. I confess that I had suffered greatly during those few days that the book on Etruscan culture was out of my sight. And it was only through great self-restraint that 1 had stoically put up with this, not wishing under any circumstances to spoil the Game, whose value I've learned to respect since my youth and to which I now subordinate all my personal interests and desires.

  While I was having a touching reunion with my book, Martin continued his conversation with the pretty nurse, and got as far as getting her to promise that she would borrow a cabin at nearby Lake Hoter from a colleague for the evening. We were all perfectly happy. Finally we went across the hospital courtyard to a small green building, where the surgery ward was.

  Just then a nurse and a doctor came walking toward us. The doctor was a funny-looking beanpole with protruding ears, which fascinated me all the more because at this moment our nurse elbowed me: I let out a short laugh. When they had passed us Martin turned to me: "You're in luck, my boy. You don't deserve such a gorgeous young woman."

  I was ashamed to say that I had only looked at the beanpole, so I simulated approbation. After all, there wasn't any hypocrisy on my part. That is to say I trust Martin's taste more than my own, because I believe that his taste is supported by a much greater interest than mine. I like objectivity and order in everything, even in love affairs, and consequently I have more respect for the opinion of a connoisseur than for that of a dilettante.

  Someone might consider it hypocritical for me to call myself a dilettante�I, a divorced man who is right now relating one of his (obviously in no way exceptional) affairs. But still I am a dilettante. It could be said that I am playing at something that Martin lives. Sometimes I have the feeling that the whole of my polygamous life is a consequence of nothing but my imitation of other men; although I am not denying that I have taken a liking for this imitation. But I cannot rid myself of the feeling that in this liking there remains, all the same, something entirely free, playful, and revocable, something that characterizes visits to art galleries or foreign countries, something not submitted to the unconditional imperative I have suspected behind Martin's erotic life. It is precisely the presence of this unconditional imperative that has raised Martin in my eyes. His judgment about a woman seems to me to be that of Nature herself, Necessity herself speaking through his lips.

  Home Sweet Home

  When we found ourselves outside the hospital Martin pointed out that everything was going tremendously well for us, and then he added: "Of course we'll have to hurry this evening. I want to be home by nine."

  I was amazed: "By nine? That means we'll have to leave here at eight. But then we came here for no reason! I counted on having the whole night!'' "Why do you want us to waste our time?" "But what sense is there in driving here for one hour?

  "Everything. As you noticed, I got hold of the cabin, so that everything will go swimmingly. It will depend only on you, you'll have to show that you're sufficiendy determined."

  "But why, I ask, must you be home at nine?"

  "I promised Jirinka. She's used to playing a game of rummy before going to bed on Saturdays."

  "Oh, God ..." I sighed.

  " Yesterday Jirinka had a bad time at the office again, so I should give her this little bit of joy on Saturday, shouldn't I? You know, she's the best woman I've ever had. After all," he added, "you should be pleased anyway that you'll still have the whole night before you in Prague."

  I understood that it was useless to object. Martin's misgivings about his wife's peace of mind could never be appeased, and his faith in the endless erotic possibilities of every hour or minute could never be shaken by anything.

  "Come," said Martin, "there are still three hours till seven! We won't be idle!"

  A Delusion

  We started on our way along the broad path of the local park, which served the inhabitants as a promenade. We inspected several pairs of girls who walked by us or were sitting on the benches, but we didn't like the look of them.

  Martin, it must be admitted, accosted two of them, entered into conversation with them, and finally arranged a meeting with them, but I knew that he didn't mean it seriously. This was so-called boarding practice, which he engaged in from time to time for fear of losing his touch.

  Dissatisfied, we went out of the park into the streets, which yawned with small-town vacuity and boredom.

  "Let's get something to drink; I'm thirsty," I said to Martin.

  We found an establishment above which was the sign CAFE. We entered, but inside there was only self-service. It was a tiled room that gave off an air of coldness and hostility. We went over to the counter and bought ourselves watered-down lemonades from a sullen woman, and then carried them over to a table, which, being moist with gravy, invited us to depart hastily.

  "Don't worry about it," said Martin. "In our world ugliness has its positive function. No one feels like staying anywhere, people hurry on, and thus arises the desirable pace of life. But we won't let ourselves be provoked by this. We can now talk about all sorts of things in the safety of this ugly place." He drank some lemonade and asked: "Have you boarded that medical student yet?"

  "Naturally," I replied.

  "And what's she like, then? Describe to me exactly how she looks!"

  I described the medical student to him. This was not very difficult for me to do, even though no medical student existed. Yes. Perhaps this puts me in a bad light, but it's like this: I invented her.

  I give my word that I didn't do it maliciously, neither to show off in front of Martin nor because I wanted to lead him by the nose. I invented the medical student simply because I couldn't resist Martin's insistence.

  Martin's claims about my activities were boundless. Martin was convinced that I met new women every day. He saw me as other than I am, and if I had truthfully told him that not only had I not possessed any new women for a week, but hadn't even come close, he would have taken me for a hypocrite.

 
For this reason a few days earlier I had been forced to dream up my sighting of a medical student. Martin was satisfied, and he urged me to board her. And today he was checking on my progress.

  "And about what level is she on? Is she on . . ." He closed his eyes and in the darkness searched for a comparison: Then he remembered a mutual friend: "... is she on Marketa's level?"

  "She's far better," I said.

  "You're kidding," marveled Martin.

  "She's on your Jirinka's level."

  His own wife was for Martin the supreme criterion. Martin was greatly pleased by my report and fell into a reverie.

  A Successful Boarding

  Then a girl in corduroy pants and a short jacket walked into the room. She went to the counter, waited for a soda, and took it away to drink. She approached a table adjoining ours, put the glass to her lips, and drank without sitting down.

  Martin turned to her: "Miss," he said, "we're strangers here, and we'd like to ask you a question."

  The girl smiled. She was rather pretty.

  "We're terribly hot, and we don't know what we should do."

  "Go swimming!"

  "That's just it. We don't know where to go swimming around here."

  "There isn't any swimming here."

  "How is that possible?"

  "There's one swimming pool, but it's been empty for a month now."

  "And what about the river?"

  "It's being dredged."

  "So where do you go swimming?"

  "Only at Lake Hoter, but it's at least seven kilometers away."

  "That's nothing, we have a car; it would be very nice if you'd accompany us."

  "As our guide," I said.

  "Our guiding light," Martin corrected me.

  "Our starlight," said I.

  "Our North Star," said Martin.

  "Our planet Venus," I said.

  "You're simply our constellation, and you should come with us," said Martin.

  The girl was confused by our foolish banter and finally said that she would accompany us, but that she had to take care of something first and then she'd pick up her bathing suit; she said that we should be waiting for her in exactly an hour at this same spot.

  We were glad. We watched her as she walked away, cutely swinging her backside and tossing her black curls.

  "You see," said Martin, "life is short. We must take advantage of every minute."

  In Praise of Friendship

  We went once again into the park. Once again we examined several pairs of girls on the benches; it happened that many a young woman was good-looking, but it never happened that her companion was also good-looking.

  "In this there is some special law," I said to Martin. "An ugly woman hopes to gain something from the luster of her pretty friend; a pretty woman, for her part, hopes that she will stand out more lustrously against the background of the ugly woman; and for us it follows from this that our friendship is subjected to continuous trials. And it is precisely this that I value, that we will never leave the choice to the random development of events, nor even to some mutual struggle; choice for us is always a matter of courtesy. We offer each other the prettier girl like two old-fashioned gentlemen who can never enter a room because neither wants to be the one who goes first."