Eduard & God Read online

"It is," said Eduard, and when Alice did not stop crying, he suggested that on Saturday they go to the country. In a pretty valley by the river was his brother's cottage, where they could be alone.

  Alice's face was wet with tears as she dumbly nodded her assent.

  8

  That was on Tuesday, and when on Thursday he was again invited to the directress's studio apartment, he made his way there with cheerful self-assurance, for he had absolutely no doubt that his natural charm would definitively dissolve the church scandal into a little puff of smoke. But this is how life goes: a man imagines that he is playing his role in a particular play, and he does not suspect that in the meantime they have changed the scenery without his noticing, and he unknowingly finds himself in the middle of a rather different performance.

  He was again seated in the armchair opposite the directress. Between them was a little table and on it a bottle of cognac and two glasses. And this bottle of cognac was precisely that new prop by which a perspicacious and sober man would immediately have recognized that the church scandal was no longer the matter in question.

  But innocent Eduard was so infatuated with himself that at first he didn't realize this at all. He took part with good humor in the opening conversation (whose subject was vague and general), emptied the glass that was offered him, and was guilelessly bored. After half an hour or an hour the directress inconspicuously changed to more personal topics; she talked a lot about herself, and from her words there emerged before Eduard the image that she wanted: that of a sensible, middle-aged woman, not too happy, but reconciled to her lot in a dignified way, a woman who regretted nothing and even expressed satisfaction that she was not married, because only in this way could she fully enjoy her independence and privacy. This life had provided her with a pretty apartment, where she felt happy and where perhaps now Eduard was also not too uncomfortable.

  "No, it's really very nice here," said Eduard, and he said it glumly, because just at that moment he had stopped feeling good. The bottle of cognac (which he had inadvertently asked for on his first visit and which was now hurried to the table with such menacing readiness), the four walls of the studio apartment (creating a space that was becoming ever more constricting and confining), the directress's monologue (focusing on subjects ever more personal), her gaze (dangerously fixed on him), all this caused the change of program to begin finally to get to him; he realized that he had entered into a situation whose development was irrevocably predetermined; he clearly realized that his livelihood was jeopardized not by the directress's aversion, but by just the contrary, his physical aversion to this skinny woman with the fuzz under her nose, who was urging him to drink. His anxiety made his throat tighten.

  He obeyed the directress and emptied his glass, but now his anxiety was so strong that the alcohol had no effect on him. On the other hand after a couple of drinks the directress was already so thoroughly carried away that she abandoned her usual sobriety, and her words acquired an exaltation that was almost threatening: "One thing I envy you," she said, "is that you are so young. You can't know yet what disappointment is, what disillusion is. You still see the world as full of hope and beauty."

  She leaned across the table in Eduard's direction and in gloomy silence (with a smile that was rigidly forced) fixed her frightfully large eyes on him, while he said to himself that if he didn't manage to get a bit drunk, he'd be in real trouble before the evening was over; to that end he poured some cognac into his glass and downed it quickly.

  And the directress went on: "But I want to see it like that! The way you do!" And then she got up from the armchair, thrust out her chest, and said: "Is it true that you like me? Is it true?" And she walked around the little table and grabbed Eduard by the sleeve. "Is it true?"

  "Yes," said Eduard.

  "Come, let's dance," she said, and letting go of Eduard's hand she skipped over to the radio and turned the dial until she found some dance music. Then she stood over Eduard with a smile.

  Eduard got up, seized the directress, and began to guide her around the room to the rhythm of the music. Every now and then the directress would tenderly lay her head on his shoulder, then suddenly raise it again, to gaze into his eyes, then, after another little while, she would softly sing along with the melody.

  Eduard felt so ill at ease that several times he stopped dancing to have a drink. He longed for nothing more than to put an end to the horror of this interminable trudging around, but also he feared nothing more, for the horror of what would follow the dancing seemed to him even more unbearable. And so he continued to guide the lady who was singing to herself around the room, and at the same time intently (and with anxious impatience) watching for the desired effect on him of the alcohol. When it finally seemed to him that his brain was sufficiently deadened by the cognac, with his right arm he firmly pressed the directress against his body and put his left hand on her breast.

  Yes, he did the very thing that had been frightening him the whole evening; he would have given anything not to have had to do this, but if he did it nevertheless, then believe me, it was only because he really had to: the situation he had got into at the very beginning of the evening offered no way out; though it was probably possible to slow its course, it was impossible to stop it, so that when Eduard put his hand on the directress's breast, he was merely submitting to an inevitable necessity.

  The consequences of his action exceeded all expectations. As if by the wave of a magician's wand, the directress began to writhe in his arms, and in no time she had placed her hairy upper lip on his mouth. Then she dragged him onto the couch and wildly writhing and loudly sighing, bit his lip and the tip of his tongue, which hurt Eduard a lot. Then she slipped out of his arms, and said, ''Wait!" and ran off to the bathroom.

  Eduard licked his finger and found that his tongue was bleeding slightly. The bite hurt so much that his painstakingly induced intoxication receded, and once again his throat tightened from anxiety at the thought of what awaited him. From the bathroom could be heard a loud running and splashing of water. He picked up the bottle of cognac, put it to his lips, and drank deeply.

  But by this time the directress had appeared in the doorway in a translucent nightgown (thickly decorated with lace over the breasts), and she was walking slowly toward Eduard. She embraced him. Then she stepped back and reproachfully asked: "Why are you still dressed?"

  Eduard took off his jacket and, looking at the directress (who had her big eyes fixed on him), he couldn't think of anything but the fact that his body was likely to sabotage his assiduous will. Wishing therefore to arouse his body somehow or other, he said in an uncertain voice: "Undress completely."

  With an abrupt and enthusiastically obedient movement she flung off her nightgown and bared her skinny white body, in the middle of which her thick black bush protruded in dreary abandon. She came slowly toward him, and with terror Eduard realized what he already knew: his body was completely fettered by anxiety.

  I know, gentlemen, that in the course of the years you have become accustomed to the occasional insubordination of your own bodies, and that this no longer upsets you at all. But understand, Eduard was young then! His body's sabotage threw him into an incredible panic each time, and he bore it as an inexpiable disgrace, whether the witness to it was a beautiful face or one as hideous and comical as the directress's. The directress was now only a step away from him, and he, frightened and not knowing what to do, all at once said, he didn't even know how (it was the fruit of inspiration rather than of cunning reflection): "No, no! God, no! No, it is a sin, it would be a sin!" and he jumped away.

  But the directress kept coming toward him, and she muttered: "What sin? There is no sin!"

  Eduard retreated behind the table they had been sitting at a while before: "No, I can't do this. I don't have the right."

  The directress pushed aside the armchair standing in her path, and went after Eduard, never taking her large dark eyes off him: "There is no sin! There is no sin!"

  Eduard
went around the table, behind him was only the couch and the directress was a mere step away. Now he could no longer escape, and it was probably his very desperation that made him at this moment of impasse to command her: "Kneel!"

  She looked at him uncomprehendingly, but when he repeated in a firm though desperate voice, "Kneel!" she enthusiastically fell to her knees in front of him and embraced his legs.

  "Take those hands away," he called her to order. "Clasp them!"

  Once again she looked at him uncomprehendingly.

  "Clasp them! Did you hear?"

  She clasped her hands.

  "Pray!" he commanded.

  She had her hands clasped, and she raised her eyes toward him fervently.

  "Pray! So that God may forgive us," he shouted.

  She had her hands clasped. She was looking up at him with her large eyes, and Eduard not only gained time, but looking down at her from above, he began to lose the oppressive feeling that he was merely her quarry, and he regained his self-assurance. He stepped back so that he could see all of her, and once again he commanded, "Pray!"

  When she remained silent, he yelled: "Out loud!"

  And the skinny, naked, kneeling woman began to recite: "Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come ..."

  As she uttered the words of the prayer, she gazed up at him as if he were God himself. He watched her with growing pleasure: in front of him was kneeling the directress, being humiliated by a subordinate; in front of him a naked revolutionary was being humiliated by prayer; in front of him a praying woman was being humiliated by her nakedness.

  This threefold image of humiliation intoxicated him, and something unexpected suddenly happened: his body revoked its passive resistance; Eduard had an erection!

  As the directress said, "And lead us not into temptation," he quickly threw off all his clothes. When she said, "Amen," he violently lifted her off the floor and dragged her onto the couch.

  9

  That was on Thursday, and on Saturday Eduard went with Alice to the country to visit his brother, who welcomed them warmly and lent them the key to the nearby cottage.

  The two lovers spent the whole afternoon wandering through the woods and meadows. They kissed, and Eduard's contented hands found that the imaginary line, level with her navel, which separated the sphere of innocence from that of fornication, didn't count anymore. At first he wanted to verify the long-awaited event verbally, but he became frightened of doing so and understood that he had best keep silent.

  His judgment was probably correct; Alice's abrupt turnaround had occurred independently of his many weeks of persuasion, independently of his argumentation, independently of any logical consideration whatsoever. In fact it was based exclusively upon the news of Eduard's martyrdom, consequently upon a mistake, and it had been deduced quite illogically even from this mistake; let us reflect for a moment: why should Eduard's sufferings for his fidelity to his beliefs result in Alices infidelity to God's law? If Eduard had not betrayed God before the fact-finding committee, why should she now betray him before Eduard?

  In such a situation any reflection expressed aloud could risk revealing to Alice the inconsistency of her attitude. So Eduard prudently kept silent, which went unnoticed, because Alice herself kept chattering. She was cheerful, and nothing indicated that this turnaround in her soul had been dramatic or painful.

  When it got dark they went back to the cottage, turned on the lights, turned down the bed, and kissed, whereupon Alice asked Eduard to turn off the lights. But the light of the stars continued to show through the window, so Eduard had to close the shutters as well on Alice's request. Then, in total darkness, Alice undressed and gave herself to him.

  Eduard had been looking forward to this moment for so many weeks, but surprisingly enough, now, when it was actually taking place, he didn't have the feeling that it would be as significant as the length of time he had been waiting for it suggested; it seemed to him so easy and self-evident that during the act of love he was almost distracted and was vainly trying to drive away the thoughts that were running through his head: everything came back to him, those long, futile weeks when Alice had tormented him with her coldness; the problems at school, which she had been the cause of, so instead of gratitude for her giving herself to him, he began to feel a kind of vindictive rancor. It irritated him how easily and without remorse she was now betraying her God Antifornicator, whom she had once so fanatically worshiped; it irritated him that no desire, no event, no upset troubled her serenity. It irritated him that she experienced everything without inner conflict, self-confidently and easily. And when this irritation threatened to overcome him with its power, he strove to make love to her passionately and furiously so as to force from her some sort of sound, moan, word, or pathetic cry, but he didn't succeed. The girl was quiet, and in spite of all his exertions in their lovemaking, it ended modestly and in silence.

  Then she snuggled up against his chest and quickly fell asleep, while Eduard lay awake for a long time and realized that he felt no joy at all. He made an effort to imagine Alice (not her physical appearance but, if possible, her being in its entirety), and it occurred to him that he saw her blurred.

  Let's stop at this word: Alice, as Eduard had seen her until this time, was, with all her naivete, a stable and distinct being: the beautiful simplicity of her looks seemed to accord with the unaffected simplicity of her faith, and the simplicity of her destiny seemed to be the reason for her attitude. Until this time Eduard had seen her as solid and coherent: he could laugh at her, he could curse her, he could get around her with his guile, but (despite himself) he had to respect her.

  Now, however, the unpremeditated snare of false news had caused a split in the coherence of her being, and it seemed to Eduard that her ideas were in fact only a veneer on her destiny, and her destiny only a veneer on her body; he saw her as an accidental conjunction of a body, ideas, and a life's course, an inorganic structure, arbitrary and unstable. He visualized Alice (who was breathing deeply on his shoulder), and he saw her body separately from her ideas, he liked this body, its ideas seemed ridiculous to him, and this body and its ideas formed no unity; he saw her as an ink line spreading on a blotter: without contours, without shape.

  He really liked this body. When Alice got up in the morning, he forced her to remain naked, and, although just yesterday she had stubbornly insisted on closed shutters, for even the dim light of the stars had bothered her, she now altogether forgot her shame. Eduard was scrutinizing her (she cheerfully pranced around, looking for a package of tea and cookies for breakfast), and when Alice glanced at him after a moment, noticed that he was lost in thought. She asked him what was the matter. Eduard replied that after breakfast he had to go and see his brother.

  His brother inquired how he was getting on at the school. Eduard replied that on the whole it was fine, and his brother said: "That Cechackova is a pig, but I forgave her long ago. I forgave her because she didn't know what she was doing. She wanted to harm me, but instead she helped me find a beautiful life. As a farmer I earn more, and contact with nature protects me from the skepticism to which citydwellers are prone."

  "That woman, as a matter of fact, brought me some happiness too," said Eduard, lost in thought, and he told his brother that he had fallen in love with Alice, that he had feigned a belief in God, that he had had to appear before a committee, that Cechackova had wanted to reeducate him, and that Alice had finally given herself to him, thinking he was a martyr. The only thing he didn't tell was that he had forced the directress to recite the Lord's Prayer, because he saw disapproval in his brother's eyes. He stopped talking, and his brother said: "I may have a great many faults, but one I don't have: I've never dissimulated, and I've said to everyone's face what I thought."

  Eduard loved his brother, and his disapproval hurt, so he made an effort to justify himself, and they began to argue. In the end Eduard said:

  "I know you are a straightforward man and that you pride your
self on it. But put one question to yourself: Why in fact should one tell the truth? What obliges us to do it? And why do we consider telling the truth to be a virtue? Imagine that you meet a madman, who claims that he is a fish and that we are all fish. Are you going to argue with him? Are you going to undress in front of him and show him that you don't have fins? Are you going to say to his face what you think? Well, tell me!"

  His brother was silent, and Eduard went on: "If you told him the whole truth and nothing but the truth, only what you really thought, you would enter into a serious conversation with a madman and you yourself would become mad. And it is the same way with the world that surrounds us. If I obstinately told the truth to its face, it would mean that I was taking it seriously. And to take seriously something so unserious means to lose all one's own seriousness. I have to lie, if I don't want to take madmen seriously and become a madman myself."

 

  10

  It was Sunday afternoon, and the two lovers left for town; they were alone in a compartment (the girl was again chattering cheerfully), and Eduard remembered how some time ago he had looked forward to finding in Alices optional character a seriousness that his duties would never provide for him; and he sadly realized (as the train idyllically clattered over the joints of the tracks) that the love adventure he had experienced with Alice was derisory, made up of chance and errors, without any seriousness or meaning; he heard Alice's words, he saw her gestures (she squeezed his hand), and it occurred to him that these were signs devoid of significance, currency without backing, weights made of paper, and that he could not grant them value any more than God could the prayer of the naked directress; and suddenly it seemed to him that, in fact, all the people he had met in this town were only ink lines spreading on a blotter, beings with interchangeable attitudes, beings without firm substance; but what was worse, what was far worse (it struck him next), was that he himself was only a shadow of all these shadow-characters; for he had been exhausting his own brain only to adjust to them and imitate them and yet, even if he imitated them with an internal laugh, not taking them seriously, even if he made an effort to mock them secretly (and so to justify his effort to adapt), it didn't alter the case, for even malicious imitation remains imitation, even a shadow that mocks remains a shadow, a secondary thing, derivative and wretched.