The Ice Cream Man (11 page)

“There’s no pit in the film.”

“No, there’s not. You cut it. Why?”

“It didn’t have anything to do with the story.”

“But you shot it.”

“I had a dream where they were digging a pit. I decided to try it out. The next day, I went into the woods with Martin and the cameraman. I asked Martin to dig a pit in the ground. And as he dug, I soon realized that it didn’t make any sense.”

“Is that so? He kept digging for quite a while. What was going through your mind during that time?”

“Not a lot. I was watching Martin. But he didn’t really get much out of it either. He just wound up feeling ill.”

“In what way?”

“It was hard work; he was sweating buckets. I stopped the camera and told him, ‘That’s enough, Martin. Someone else will have to continue digging and when the pit is nearly finished, we’ll shoot another short take with you for the rest.’ He didn’t agree to that, poor guy. He always had to prove he was a serious actor. Even when it was unnecessary. I was ready to forget about the pit altogether, but I let him finish digging it. Have you spoken to him?”

“He didn’t have much to say. He just said he did as you asked because you’re the director. He thought it had something to do with the story. But when it was left out, he wasn’t bothered about it.”

A river runs through the town. The director is walking along the river with the woman.

“So, what about me?” the woman asks. “What would you suggest for me? If I were an actress . . .”

“Is that what you’re after from me? A part?”

“I could stroll down the street again and again in your films. Only my back would be visible, or at most my profile, and I’d always be walking away from the camera. I could stand in various lines, sit in cars driving past. I could be a gossamer-fine thread that was ever present through all of your work—but no one would know why.”

“Indeed, why? You ought to give me a reason.”

“So you would do much better to give me a real part. I can make it easier for you. Let’s just say you were going to make
The Grandmother
—”

“
The Grandmother
?” the director laughs. “Somebody other than me will make that one.”

“Yes, but if you were going to make
The Grandmother
, in spite of everything, who would I play in it?”

“Well, why don’t you tell me? I’m sure you already have your eye set on a part.”

“There’s only one part for me. But I’m still asking you if I’m right for it at all.”

“Well, why not? There’s something in your body language that’s slightly skittish, almost possessed . . . just the way Viktorka might be.”

“But who would be the Black Soldier?”

“Indeed, who could play him?”

“Not Martin Jelínek, at any rate.”

“You don’t understand his potential.”

“And you don’t understand the Black Soldier.”

“Aren’t I the director here?”

“Of course you are, but you’re not a woman.”

The director gives a snort and looks at the dried leaves floating in the river.

“Nobody ever asks me whom I’d like to play. And I’ve never thought about it myself. I am every part in my films. I’ve hit the jackpot. What is one single part compared to that? Or even all the parts one actor might play in his entire career, depending on his sex, age, looks, talent, and language? But right here, right now, with you . . . there might be one part I wouldn’t swap for all of those.”

The woman gives a mocking laugh.

“You, the Black Soldier?”

“And Viktorka would accompany me into the dark forest. Deeper and deeper.”

The woman’s face freezes midlaugh. She gets up from the bench and goes over to the trees. She finds a tree with a thick trunk and drooping branches and leans back against the trunk.

“So let’s see what you can do. I always end up disappointed.”

The man lays his hand on the woman’s neck and briefly kisses her closed mouth.

“I didn’t feel anything. Not a thing.”

“I was kissing your scar. I’ll kiss you somewhere else.”

“I don’t have anywhere that’s not a scar.”

“I’ll keep searching until I find a spot.”

In the hotel room, the woman gives a weary smile.

“Did they tell you how easy I am?”

“Nobody called you easy. You’ve had male acquaintances, but I don’t believe for a moment that there would have been anything easy about that, except at the start.”

“Have they told you about my husband?”

The woman strolls around the room as if she were still outdoors: she does not remove her hat and is still carrying her handbag.

“They won’t manage to get their hands on my husband. Do you know why? If they did, they’d conjure up another leg for him. But they can’t conjure up a leg for him, nor can they magic away the place where his leg is missing. They might throw him on a trash pile, but he’s always going to be missing one leg. They lose because they’re intact. And we win because we’re defective.”

“Do you know what they told me?” the woman continues. “If my son tries to leave the country when he comes of age, there won’t be a single barrier at the border he can’t pass through. There is a notice on the wall of every border hut that reads: Jan Vorszda has a permit to travel abroad. Jan Vorszda is allowed to get out of here. Inspect his passport just like anyone else’s, or if he hasn’t got one, get one made up for him quickly. Then doff your cap and wish him
bon voyage!
My son does not interest them in the slightest. He is insignificant and harmless, regardless of his geographical location. The only thing that interests them is how they’re going to get their hands on my husband afterward. When my son crosses the border and leaves the Pact, he will be stitched onto his father’s stump, and then they’ll finally be able to get rid of the whole man.”

The woman observes the director as he draws the curtains.

“Why are you closing the curtains? This is the top floor, and the room only overlooks the park.”

“I thought it might be too bright for you.”

“I haven’t even taken my hat off yet. Don’t you have any manners? Haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve said? What was I talking about?”

“About your son crossing the border.”

“Yes, when he comes of age. Their psychological unit has written up a complete report on him; they’re just waiting for a date. The boy’s a good-for-nothing, but he’s unhappy enough that he’ll scurry off if someone happens to forget and leaves a door open. What sort of opinion does he have of himself? People like him don’t have many opportunities to seem special. He ought to move to a different climate. Or he should go somewhere where nothing has happened for a hundred years. And then, right there, completely the wrong kind of girl, one of those overwhelming sorts, will fall in love with him for completely the wrong reasons. The sort of girl who believes in the power of paradoxes, like the two of them having a unique connection simply because they can’t understand a word of each other’s language. And for a while, that might be true: the girl has never listened so closely to anyone, and the boy has never spoken so plainly to anyone. As a result of all that, the boy is not just one boy, but the whole country he’s fled. Nothing less will do for that girl, either: she’s sleeping with all of Czechoslovakia. How does that sort of thing end?”

“Well? How?”

“Obviously, it ends with the boy not being all of Czechoslovakia but just one boy from that country—and what’s more, the sort of boy who left the country without much fuss and without whom the country will function perfectly well. It’s the sort of country the boy just wants to forget. But which is harder to forget? The fact that someone loved you, or that you were not loved at all?”

“Yes, but how does it end in concrete terms?”

“What could be more concrete? The boy learns the girl’s language. In the end, the boy learns it.”

“Are you listening to me?”

“Of course I’m listening. You’ve been telling me about your son and your husband.”

“I know what you’re thinking.”

The director says nothing, and the woman adds, “You’re wondering whether you’ve come here on a wild goose chase.”

The woman wraps herself in a sheet like a towel after swimming. Her sticky, lacquered hair is in disarray.

“Can you see my handbag anywhere?”

“No.”

“Look closer. There it is, over by the door.”

“You must have dropped it, my dear.”

“I don’t want you to take offense, but I ask that you please continue to address me formally. Now, if you would please go and bring me my handbag.”

“What do you need it for?”

“A cigarette. Now go. I want to watch you.” As the director runs across the room, the woman gives a snort.

“Men really are funny-looking creatures.”

“Are you mocking me while I’m serving you with no clothes on?”

The woman takes her handbag from him. “Would you like a cigarette?”

“I don’t smoke.”

“Good. I can’t bear men who suck on cigarettes after they’ve been with me. Have they no idea what it looks like? That they’re just switching from one compulsion to another? And that both will send them to the grave? The most loathsome thing of all is when they realize they haven’t got any cigarettes. A couple of minutes after the fireworks are over, they start to pick arguments and fiddle with the radio.”

The woman lights a cigarette and inhales deeply. Then she picks up an ashtray from the bedside table and places it on the director’s belly.

“What happened to Esther’s husband’s leg?”

The director thinks the woman’s attention is leaping to a somewhat strange subject, but he answers immediately. “He was run over by a car.”

“So badly that his whole leg had to be amputated?”

“That’s right.”

“Which occurred to you first: the idea that when the husband finally turns up, there has to be something different about him that means the wife can no longer leave him, or the scene where the husband loses a leg?”

“What do you mean? The last time Esther saw her husband, he still had two legs.”

“Yes, but what happened?”

“The husband was in a hurry to reach the place where Esther and the others were waiting for him with forged papers.”

“What others?”

“The ones who had arranged the papers for him.”

“Who were they?”

“How should I know? Anyway, it doesn’t matter.”

“So, he was in a hurry. And then?”

“He was running across the street, and a car came speeding around a corner and drove right into him.”

“Was the car in a hurry as well?”

“At any rate, it was driving too fast through the middle of the town.”

“Whose car was it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Nonsense. Of course you thought about whether it was a Moravian family man or an SS officer who ran over him.”

“All right, I can’t deny I thought about it. But the film ends before there can be any consequences. So I stopped thinking about it.”

“Weren’t there any eyewitnesses to the accident?”

“Probably. It was in the center of town.”

“What about the car? Didn’t it stop?”

“No, it went on its way.”

“Even though it drove on, people would have noticed if it were a troop vehicle.”

“If you want to know the truth, I stopped thinking about it because I had no information about what the driver’s background might mean.”

“And do you know now?”

“It’s more unclear than ever.”

“But you said it was an accident. That means nobody did it on purpose.”

“That’s right. It was purely by chance.”

“Chance is far trickier. The terror carried out by the Nazis was evil, but the fact that they were sorry about something might be even worse.”

The woman is silent for a moment and blows on the director’s belly, where some ash has fallen from her cigarette.

“Why didn’t you start the film with that scene? Imagine the drama. A wife is waiting for her husband in some dimly lit back room with some unknown people; forged documents are ready for them, but there is no sign of the man. Then you’d have two options: Stay in the room. Show the wife waiting, her fear growing, the irritation of the others. And finally she leaves without her husband—and with a stranger. Or then show the husband in a rush, half running, sweating, struggling to look normal, and he does still look normal, because he has two legs to run with. But then a car comes racing around the corner, his trouser leg rips, his leg is crushed into blood and shards of bone. And back to the room, where they are already making a decision on the husband’s behalf. Time’s up when a car drives into the courtyard. Just think—it could be the same car that ran over the husband. So there’s even more of a commotion. There’s blood on one of the front tires, the driver is shaking, shouts for water and towels, as if someone’s about to give birth. The wife doesn’t really seem to be all there. Someone asks her, “Are we leaving or not?” But it’s as if she’s talking about something else. “Where’s my husband?” They don’t get an answer out of her until someone thinks to say, “He’s running late; he’ll come later.” Why do they say that? Why are they so desperate to get the woman on the move? Because they have papers for a woman, and there aren’t any other women in the room except her. Despite that, and despite the urgency, they threaten her, “Shall we give these to someone else, then? Do you want to go to the back of the line? Do you know how long the line is? It goes all the way to Australia! Once you’ve found the end of the line, you won’t need to go anywhere else ever again!” The woman goes into the courtyard. The gate to the courtyard is shut; a half-grown boy is waiting next to the gate, bewilderment in his eyes and his mouth hanging open. The woman stoops and falls into the backseat. In the front seat, a shadowy stranger’s head and shoulders are visible. The driver kicks over a bucket. The soil in the courtyard has been packed hard, and it takes a long time for the red-tinged water to soak away. Someone remarks about the puddle: Blažek’s dog’s pissing blood again.”