any.”
“It will help you relax. With Tomáš as well.”
“I’m quite relaxed already.”
“He didn’t even get to give you a kiss.”
“It’s never just a kiss. His behavior is completely unreasonable, even when people are watching.”
“Is that so? He doesn’t seem that way at all. Well, if you change your mind, I’ve already given a few of these to Tomáš.”
Mrs. Němcová knows very well that there is a shortage of convalescent beds in the hospital, and the senior consultant is extremely concerned about Mrs. Němcová’s lungs. They don’t exchange a word; the doctor can tell right away from her coughing. It is a dry, hacking, nagging cough that produces no phlegm. It is worse at night and disturbs Mrs. Němcová’s sleep. She steadfastly forbids them to x-ray her chest, claiming to be superstitious. “What if you see my heart, with all its secret agony, its forbidden passions?” Even when the doctor explains that he would see only a shadow of her heart, she doesn’t permit any diagnostic procedures beyond a stethoscope. The relationship of pleasure and profit between them is so complicated that not even the doctor has sufficient capacity to work it out on a moral level. At the bottom of it are the business dealings between Mrs. Němcová’s deceased husband and the doctor, and they can be felt like a pea through any number of mattresses: the doctor’s Hippocratic oath, his duty of confidentiality, the widow’s cough, and all the poor patients’ complaints for which there is no relief. Because of the old lady’s inflamed larynx, many patients will be left not just coughing but writhing in pain. Of those with hope and connections, though, a few might get a free convalescent bed in Mrs. Němcová’s large house, assuming the metal box in her chest of drawers receives a regular supply of the final solution, the one whose benefits depend on the dosage.
The woman looks at the man.
“I told the landlady how we met today.”
A line of irritation appears on the man’s forehead.
“We should have discussed that first.”
“You never want to speak to me. And I had to say something when she asked.”
“Say something, yes, but you don’t always have to answer.”
“Well, it’s too late now.”
A gust of wind reaches the hill; they hear and feel it at the same time, smell the grass and the spruce trees. It comes as if to document that they are standing side by side, breathing the same air.
“Well, how did we meet?”
“On the tram.”
“Where?”
“In Olomouc.”
“What was I doing in Olomouc?”
“Have you never been there?”
“Did you tell her what I was doing there?”
“No! Just that you were on the tram. Now listen: you have to remember this. The tram was absolutely packed, the way it usually is in the afternoons, especially when a lot of people get on at the stop by the brewery after the end of their shift.”
“How do you know? Have you seen it with your own eyes?”
“Seen what?”
“That there’s a brewery there? And a stop in front of it?”
“You take me for an idiot, constantly doubting me . . .”
“Carry on, then.”
“I was standing in the center of the carriage, in the part where there are no seats—of course there were no seats free at that point. Then the doors opened, and a huge mass of people swarmed in. I ended up with my back against a window, and suddenly you were standing next to me. At first, you were standing bashfully to the side; but at the next stop, the overcrowding got worse and the mass of bodies pressed you toward me. You tried everything to avoid touching me and started to apologize, sweat dripping down into your collar; you had nothing to hold on to, and you were forced to put your hands up against the window so you wouldn’t crush me. I was trapped between the window and your arms; for a while you even managed to keep a few centimeters’ distance between our bodies—it must have required tremendous strength, and
“It will help you relax. With Tomáš as well.”
“I’m quite relaxed already.”
“He didn’t even get to give you a kiss.”
“It’s never just a kiss. His behavior is completely unreasonable, even when people are watching.”
“Is that so? He doesn’t seem that way at all. Well, if you change your mind, I’ve already given a few of these to Tomáš.”
Mrs. Němcová knows very well that there is a shortage of convalescent beds in the hospital, and the senior consultant is extremely concerned about Mrs. Němcová’s lungs. They don’t exchange a word; the doctor can tell right away from her coughing. It is a dry, hacking, nagging cough that produces no phlegm. It is worse at night and disturbs Mrs. Němcová’s sleep. She steadfastly forbids them to x-ray her chest, claiming to be superstitious. “What if you see my heart, with all its secret agony, its forbidden passions?” Even when the doctor explains that he would see only a shadow of her heart, she doesn’t permit any diagnostic procedures beyond a stethoscope. The relationship of pleasure and profit between them is so complicated that not even the doctor has sufficient capacity to work it out on a moral level. At the bottom of it are the business dealings between Mrs. Němcová’s deceased husband and the doctor, and they can be felt like a pea through any number of mattresses: the doctor’s Hippocratic oath, his duty of confidentiality, the widow’s cough, and all the poor patients’ complaints for which there is no relief. Because of the old lady’s inflamed larynx, many patients will be left not just coughing but writhing in pain. Of those with hope and connections, though, a few might get a free convalescent bed in Mrs. Němcová’s large house, assuming the metal box in her chest of drawers receives a regular supply of the final solution, the one whose benefits depend on the dosage.
The woman looks at the man.
“I told the landlady how we met today.”
A line of irritation appears on the man’s forehead.
“We should have discussed that first.”
“You never want to speak to me. And I had to say something when she asked.”
“Say something, yes, but you don’t always have to answer.”
“Well, it’s too late now.”
A gust of wind reaches the hill; they hear and feel it at the same time, smell the grass and the spruce trees. It comes as if to document that they are standing side by side, breathing the same air.
“Well, how did we meet?”
“On the tram.”
“Where?”
“In Olomouc.”
“What was I doing in Olomouc?”
“Have you never been there?”
“Did you tell her what I was doing there?”
“No! Just that you were on the tram. Now listen: you have to remember this. The tram was absolutely packed, the way it usually is in the afternoons, especially when a lot of people get on at the stop by the brewery after the end of their shift.”
“How do you know? Have you seen it with your own eyes?”
“Seen what?”
“That there’s a brewery there? And a stop in front of it?”
“You take me for an idiot, constantly doubting me . . .”
“Carry on, then.”
“I was standing in the center of the carriage, in the part where there are no seats—of course there were no seats free at that point. Then the doors opened, and a huge mass of people swarmed in. I ended up with my back against a window, and suddenly you were standing next to me. At first, you were standing bashfully to the side; but at the next stop, the overcrowding got worse and the mass of bodies pressed you toward me. You tried everything to avoid touching me and started to apologize, sweat dripping down into your collar; you had nothing to hold on to, and you were forced to put your hands up against the window so you wouldn’t crush me. I was trapped between the window and your arms; for a while you even managed to keep a few centimeters’ distance between our bodies—it must have required tremendous strength, and
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