Farewell Waltz

disappeared below the horizon, the darkness deepened in the forest, and a round moon appeared above the tops of the fir trees. They went back to the car. As they were reaching the road they found themselves in a beam of light. For a moment they thought it was the headlights of a passing car, but it became instantly obvious that the light was focused on them. The beam was coming from a motorcycle parked on the other side of the road; a man was on it, watching them.
“Hurry up, let’s go. Please!” said Ruzena.
When they were near the car, the man on the motorcycle got off and moved toward them. Klima could only make out a dark silhouette because the parked motorcycle was lighting the man from behind, and the trumpeter had the light in his eyes.
“Come here!” the man shouted, rushing toward Ruzena. “I have to talk to you. We’ve got things to talk about! A lot of things!” His voice was tense and confused.
The trumpeter too was tense and confused, and all he could feel was a kind of irritation at the lack of respect: “The young lady is with me, not with you,” he announced.
“You too, I have to talk to you, you know!” the stranger screamed at the trumpeter. “You think because you’re famous you can do anything you want! You figure you’re going to play games with her! That you can turn her head! It’s very easy for you! I could do the same thing if I were you!”
Ruzena took advantage of the motorcyclist’s focus on the trumpeter to slip into the car. The motorcyclist leaped toward the door. But the window was closed and the young woman turned on the radio. The car resounded with loud music. Then the trumpeter also slipped into the car and slammed the door. The music was deafening. Through the windshield they could only make out the silhouette of a screaming man and his gesticulating arms.
“He’s a madman who’s always following me,” said Ruzena. “Quick, please let’s get going!”
10
He parked the car, took Ruzena to Karl Marx House, gave her a kiss, and when she disappeared behind the door, felt as tired as after four sleepless nights. It was getting late. Klima was hungry and didn’t feel even strong enough to take the wheel and drive. He yearned to hear soothing words from Bertlef and walked across the park to the Richmond.
Arriving at the entrance, he was struck by the sight of a large poster lit by a street lamp. His name was on it in big, clumsy letters, and below it, in smaller letters, were the names of Dr. Skreta and the piano-playing pharmacist. The poster had been done by hand and included an amateur drawing of a golden trumpet.
The trumpeter considered it a good omen that Dr. Skreta had arranged the concert promotion so quickly, because such speed seemed to indicate that Skreta was a man he could count on. He went up the stairs in a hurry and knocked at Bertlef’s door.
There was no answer.
He knocked again, and again there was no answer.
Before he could think whether he was arriving at the wrong time (the American was known for his many relationships with women) his hand pushed down on the door handle. The door was unlocked. The trumpeter went into the room and stopped. He could see nothing. Nothing but a glow coming from a location on the wall of the room. It was a strange glow; it did not resemble the white light of a fluorescent tube or the yellow one of an electric bulb. It was a bluish light, and it filled the whole room.
Then a belated thought reached his imprudent fingers and suggested to him that he was possibly being indiscreet by intruding, without the slightest invitation, on people at a late hour. Afraid of being rude, he stepped back into the corridor and quickly closed the door.
But he was so confused that instead of leaving he remained standing at the door, striving to understand that strange light. He wondered if the American might be naked in his room and taking a sunbath under an ultraviolet lamp. But then the door opened and Bertlef appeared. He was not naked, he was wearing the same outfit he had worn in the morning. He smiled at the trumpeter: “I am glad you have come by to see me. Come in.”
The trumpeter entered with curiosity, but the room was now lit by an ordinary ceiling lamp.
“I’m afraid I’ve disturbed you,” said the trumpeter.
“Not at all!” Bertlef responded, pointing to the window where the trumpeter thought he had seen the source of the blue light. “I was just sitting here thinking. That’s all.”
“When I came in just before—excuse me for barging in on you like that—I saw an absolutely extraordinary light.”
“A light?” said Bertlef, and he laughed. “You should not take that pregnancy with such seriousness. It is giving you hallucinations.”
“Or else maybe it was because I was coming from the very dark corridor.”
“That could be,” said Bertlef. “But tell me how things turned out!”
The trumpeter began his story, and after a while Bertlef interrupted: “Are you hungry?”
The trumpeter nodded, and Bertlef took a package of crackers and a can of ham out of a cupboard and immediately opened them.
Klima went on talking, greedily downing his dinner and looking inquiringly at Bertlef.
“I believe everything will turn out well,” Bertlef comforted him.
“And what do you think about the fellow who was waiting for us by the car?”
Bertlef shrugged: “I don’t know. Anyway, it’s no longer important.”
“That’s right. I have to think instead about how to explain to Kamila why that conference took so long.”
It was already very late. Comforted and reassured, the trumpeter got into his car and set off for the capital. He was accompanied all the way by an enormous round moon.

Third Day


1
It is Wednesday morning, and the spa is once again awake for an active day. Torrents of