Farewell Waltz

into rebellion: spitefully she thought that the trumpeter would have to accept her just as she was, even in this cheap dress, and this gave her an odd feeling of satisfaction.
“It’s a question of hygiene,” her father went on. “Our towns will never be clean as long as dogs leave their loads on the sidewalk. And it’s also a question of morality. It’s intolerable for dogs to be pampered in housing constructed for people.”
Something was happening that Ruzena did not suspect: her rebellion was mysteriously, imperceptibly merging with her father’s indignation. She no longer felt the intense repugnance for him that had filled her just a while ago; on the contrary, she unknowingly drew energy from his vehement words.
“We never had a dog in the house, and we weren’t missing anything,” said her father.
She continued to look at herself in the mirror and felt that being pregnant gave her a new advantage. Whether she found herself beautiful or not, the trumpeter had made the trip expressly to see her and very nicely invited her to meet him at the brasserie. For that matter (she looked at her watch), at this very moment he was already waiting for her there.
“But we’re going to make a clean sweep, little girl, you’ll see!” her father said, laughing, and this time she reacted gently, almost with a smile: “I’m glad, Papa. But now I have to leave.”
“Me too. The exercise starts again any minute.”
They left Karl Marx House together and then went their separate ways. Ruzena headed slowly toward the brasserie.
8
Klima had never managed to identify entirely with his role of a famous and popular artist, and particularly now, with his private worries, he felt it as a flaw and a handicap. When he entered the brasserie with Ruzena and, opposite the checkroom, saw his enlarged photo on a poster left over from the last concert, he was gripped by a sensation of anxiety. He crossed the room with the young woman, automatically trying to guess which of the customers recognized him. He was afraid of their gaze, thought he saw eyes everywhere observing him, spying on him, dictating his expressions and behavior to him. He felt several curious looks fixed on him. He tried to ignore them and headed for a small table in the back, near a bay window with a view of the park’s foliage.
When they were seated he smiled at Ruzena, caressed her hand, and said that her dress became her. She demurred modestly, but he insisted and tried to talk for a while on the topic of the nurse’s charms. He was surprised, he said, by her good looks. He had been thinking about her so much for two months that the pictorial efforts of his memory had fashioned an image of her that was remote from the reality. What was extraordinary about it, he said, was that her real appearance, although he had very much desired it as he thought of her, nonetheless topped the imaginary one.
Ruzena pointed out that she had not heard from the trumpeter for two months, and from that she gathered that he had not thought of her very much.
This was an objection he had carefully prepared for. He sighed wearily and told the young woman she could have no idea of the terrible two months he had just spent. Ruzena asked him what had happened, but the trumpeter didn’t want to go into the details. He merely replied that he had been the victim of great ingratitude and had suddenly found himself all alone in the world, without friends, without anyone.
He was a little afraid that Ruzena would start questioning him in detail about his worries, with the risk of his becoming entangled in lies. His fears were excessive. Ruzena was of course very interested to learn that the trumpeter had gone through a difficult time, and she readily accepted this excuse for his two-month silence. But she was completely indifferent to the exact nature of his troubles. About those sad months he had just lived through, only the sadness interested her.
“I thought a lot about you, and it would have made me so happy to help you.”
“I was so disgusted I was even afraid to see people. Sad company is bad company.”
“I was sad too.”
“I know,” he said, caressing her hand.
“I’ve known for quite a while that I’m carrying your child. And you gave no sign of life. But I’d have kept the child even if you never wanted to see me again. I told myself that even if I’m left all alone, I’ll at least have your child. I’d never get rid of it. No, never …”
Klima was speechless; mute terror took hold of his mind.
Fortunately for him the waiter, who was casual about serving the customers, now stopped at their table for their order.
“A brandy,” said the trumpeter, and immediately corrected himself: “Two brandies.”
There was another pause, and Ruzena repeated in an undertone: “No, not for anything in the world would I ever get rid of it.”
“Don’t say that,” Klima replied, regaining his wits. “You’re not the only one involved. A child is not only the woman’s business. It’s the couple’s business. Both of them have to agree, or else things could end very badly.”
When he finished he realized he had just indirectly admitted that he was the child’s father. From now on any conversation with Ruzena would be based on that admission. He was well aware that he was acting according to plan and that this concession was part of it, yet he was terrified of his own words.
The waiter brought them the two brandies: “Are you really Mister Klima, the trumpet player?”
“Yes,” said Klima.
“The girls in the kitchen recognized you. That’s really you on the poster?”
“Yes,” said Klima.
“It seems you’re the idol of all the women between twelve and seventy!” said the waiter, adding for Ruzena’s benefit: “All the women are so envious they want to scratch your eyes out!” As he left he turned around several