About how it rained

 

Irka stretched in bed and yawned widely.

"Damn! I could sleep all day! I don't even feel like moving a hair. "

I stood by the window, smoking a cigarette.

"You amaze me, my dear," I said. "It's raining so beautifully outside, Mother Nature has treated us to such a spectacular cloudburst, and you're planning to sleep?"

It was the honest truth.

For three days, storm clouds had been swirling over Prague, and soaked passersby, cursing living stones, nervously fiddled with umbrellas, trying to position them at the best possible angles.

"What are we doing today?" I asked, blowing elaborate smoke rings.

"You're not planning to make up with your mistress, by any chance?" Irka asked teasingly. "This day seems perfect for this kind of ceremony." Tearful and sad, and it's common knowledge that reconciliation and apology are a long and painful process. And rather bleak.

"Great wit, Irka! You have a truly excellent sense of humor! I only regret that you're sharpening it on my wretched self. A poor target, I swear.

" "Well," Irka said, unraveling from the sheets, "I'd like to know where I stand. Nightly knocking on doors is a bit stressful for those who have to open them. Although, on the other hand... I feel a bit better knowing I did a good Samaritan thing. I gave shelter, after all, to a homeless man in love!

We could chat like that for hours.

And you can probably guess what it's all about?

For the past few weeks, I've been staying with a certain woman, sharing a kitchen with her."

And Irka stayed in our studio apartment, a lonely but fully independent gentleman of his own.

For a while, everything went well and according to my plan: the woman was cheerful, interesting, and likeable company, and I slowly came to the conclusion that perhaps it was time to settle down.

Until the first friction arose.

After a few days of sharing the household, the woman felt a bit more confident in her role as hostess and began—gently at first, of course—to take charge.

Out of nowhere, she began uttering phrases like, "This should be done," "That should be taken care of," or "I would have acted completely differently."

By nature, I have a very peaceful outlook and value unfettered independence.

So I graciously gave her some time to come to her senses, consistently ignoring her remarks.

She didn't.

Until one day, a confrontation ensued.

The woman had just returned from work (because you must know, this charming girl was working, of course, devoting all her energy and time to the services of the local Land Registry Office) and began from the doorway in this pattern:

"You haven't vacuumed again?!

I shrugged.

"I haven't had much time, lovely lady. But I did write a few songs. Want to listen?"

The lady slammed the shopping bag down on the kitchen table with all her might.

"I asked you to paint the door! I see you haven't even bothered to lift a brush!

" "Not exactly accurate, my dear," I replied radiantly. "I painted a picture.

" "Here you go!" I unveiled the canvas. "This is 'The Dream of Waking Happiness.' Do you like it?

" "Divine!" the woman growled.

I grunted, offended.

"Perhaps you'd like to take a closer look before you pass final judgment?"

The lady glared at me and disappeared into the kitchen.

That's how it is.

Vacuuming and dusting become a real chore, and ladies generally love to control the situation and dictate the pace of various tasks, not just household chores, by the way.

I sat down at the table and picked up a book. I opened it at random and pretended to read.

And the lady, after wandering around the kitchen, returned to the room and, with a very sulky expression, began a monologue.

That "everything is on her head," that "she's neither a camel nor a pack donkey," and that "a minimum of responsibility for everyday, even the most ordinary things, never hurt anyone."

And so on, and so forth.

I listened patiently, then said,

"I know, my dear, you're talking about serious and fundamental matters, but you see... I happen to be trying to read." And it just so happens that because of your speech, I'm reading the same sentence for the fifth time...

The lady choked with indignation.

"How dare you! This is unbelievable! I've had enough!

" "Me too"—I closed the book and stood up—"Goodbye!"

And I headed for the door.

The lady looked uncertainly in my direction.

"Goodbye?

" "Goodbye," I repeated.

I turned the knob and left.

Irka greeted me without any particular surprise.

"What was that about?" he asked, smiling cheerfully.

"Oh, about trifles, basically. About the scope of duties and about leading the pack...

" "So, the same as usual," my friend chuckled with amusement. "They're incorrigible, I swear! What book did you slam shut this time?

" ""Ulysses" by James Joyce.

" "Oh!" "Irka put on a serious face. 'I see you've mixed the classics into this whole mess!'

He bustled around in the kitchen and made some coffee.

Then he settled comfortably in an armchair, lit a cigarette, and began without any preamble.

'I once knew a certain Zdenek Blecharz. He was a decent guy and a good friend. And then one day he met a charming girl who captivated him.'

They held hands, took each other for walks, and chatted sweetly—in short, idyllic! A year passed, and a year later, the case unraveled. It turned out the girl was only fourteen, and he was, naturally, a bit older. Which smacks of a crime, as you know. And the guy went to jail...

"He couldn't determine her age for a year?" I grimaced. "That's a terrible stretch...

" "Maybe he did, maybe not." Irka exhaled a puff of smoke. "What does it matter? We all know that love is blind, and those suffering from it tend to overlook certain details. For example, the fact that your beloved packs her books every morning and goes to school...

" "And who helped expose the case?"

"The neighbors, of course," my friend explained, "just a small sample of selfless mischief and civic vigilance.

" "Was there a sequel?

" "And there was," Irka nodded. "Zdenek got four years. He served two, and the rest was generously forgiven. And you know what? The girl was waiting for him the whole time! They got married, had two children, and shared many happy moments...

" "So, a happy ending?" I asked. "Congratulations!

" "Not quite, my dear, not quite. They divorced last year, screaming at each other at the top of their lungs and tearing their fortunes to shreds and pieces."

"Ha!" I muttered.

"So, as you can see, your love problems are nothing compared to what others have experienced.

" "A beautiful story, Irka," I said, "but it seems the wrong person is the one to whom it was addressed." I don't have heart problems!

And we laughed out loud.

We played guitars half the night, and when each of us had started yawning profusely and it was time to go to bed, Irka said,

"Do you know that I once did the same thing with 'Ulysses'?"

"In what sense?

" "Well... I slammed it shut once too. But for completely different reasons than you.

" "Namely?

" "I started reading the book and got stuck exactly on the third page. And for no reason in the world could I go any further. The reading, for me, proved unbearable.

We laughed out loud.

And outside the window, it was raining.

And the puddles glittered gloomily in the dim light of the streetlamps.