Vyhľadávanie
"Enough, Bob, that'll do," came the somewhat tired voice of an elderly man. "Enough, Bob. He's that man." This time the tired voice resounded with hidden strength. The pressure was suddenly released and dark contours retreated behind my back. I had the feeling that my neck had been transformed from a once moveable device to a fixed pole, so I did a half-turn with my whole body. Standing next to me was an athletic-looking black man dressed in a light, striped Hawaiian shirt with short sleeves, which on other people would be hanging loose, but on him were straining at the seams thanks to his large biceps. He stared at me with regretful hate and muttered: "Massa Bob kill bad white man." Then he slowly turned away and walked out of the room.
It was a large room, fragrant with the scent of jasmine oil and lit by three round electric light fittings with chrome-plated rims, built into the ceiling. As the only part that was lit up was the spot where I was standing, it was impossible to guess the length of the room (in fact it was impossible to guess the size of all this space under the green hut in the forest). The lights were directed at me, so I was standing in a spotlight, like on a stage, blinded by the glare and just sensing the darkness before me. The red wallpaper in the passage had disappeared and the character of the space changed completely: the walls of the room, like its ceiling, were panelled with heavy, stained oak, stratified into similar geometrical shapes. Along the walls there were several unnaturally low couches in various pastel shades, even the colours of boiled sweets. Further on, in the middle of the room, I found myself facing an adjustable chair, identical to the one in the upper room of the hut. "Sit down," said the voice. After the unexpected attack from "Massa Bob" my spine protested against such an invitation, but the old man's tone of voice conveyed such a sense of urgency, that it was impossible to understand the invitation as other than an command. With a certain masochistic satisfaction derived from my own helplessness, I sat down. For the attack by "Massa Bob" had been no chance attack. It had been a demonstration of brute force, controlled by the soft voice of the old man. "So you decided to come," he said.
"I decided to attempt it," I tried to contradict.
"An attempt always sets off a certain mechanism." The voice came from where the blinding light shining down on me passed into semidarkness and the shadowy contours of other chairs and a tea trolley could be discerned. At the same point the wooden panelling ended and the wall continued in yellowish plaster.
"I didn't know, I still don't know, what it's all about."
"The man who knew too little," the voice spoke out in a mildly derisive tone.
"There are certain situations… I mean in life…" I said.
"In a sense, it could be said that life is a series of situations," the voice cut in.
"Only certain circumstances have forced me…"
"Within the range of the two basic situations to which all others can be reduced: I am and I am not."
"Except one." I waited. There was a silence.
"You are clearly expecting a question from me. But I know the answer. Yes, except one." This time it was he who was waiting. "I kill." It was as if I had been struck by lightening. The man had read my thoughts.
"It was a letter," I said, "a telegram in fact. Notifying the place. In fact, only the place. A sketch of the access road. Nothing more."
"Hm, so it was a note… Pour yourself a drink," he said sharply. "The trolley." His voice quivered slightly with impatience.
I stepped into the semidarkness of the room.
"Don't go behind the trolley. Help yourself." I poured myself a glass of Scotch and, with the tongs that had been prepared on a saucer, I dropped several ice cubes into it. "The light bothers me. I've been living in the shadows for years. I have my back to you."
I returned to the adjustable chair.
"Now I've turned a little to the left. I can see your shadow on the wall. Sit down. To me your outlines on the wall are the real thing."
"Do you want to turn…"
"They are real. Real as outlines. Nonsense. I'm not afraid of the light any more than you are. No Platonic cave or any such trash. The caves here are disgustingly real." He broke off and I had the feeling he needed to catch his breath. He coughed, then hissed. "I often read. That's not good for an old person. I'm too fond of books, I'm too fond of feeling good. Sitting down in a rocking chair and turning on a lamp. Undisturbed. Just being. That comfort, that peace, depends on a large number of people, guards working to protect my peace. Even create it, you could say. Financiers multiplying capital, so I can read undisturbed. Power stations producing energy for my table lamp. The man operating the heating, so I can read in the warmth. God, when I think that I, a loner and misanthrope, live only thanks to the mercy of other people! It's true, I pay for it. I have the money to pay for it. Too much indulging in life produces fear. Fear that we'll lose what we're fond of. To be fond of something breeds slavery."
"That's true. True for your age," I said.
"I have no age. Or, I have, but it's irrelevant."
I froze. Those were the words spoken by a woman's voice, the coquettish voice that had met me in the hut above. "You indulge too much in life, that produces fear," she had said in a tone like on a hot telephone line. "Did I say something different?" she said. "Than before? Is it the tone of voice that matters and then it creates what we say?"
"You obviously expect something of me. You want something." I came to the point.
"If you don't mind a woman giving you orders," she flirted ironically. In that irony I sensed a reflection of the old man's previous irony.
"For a certain price," I continued.
"The price will be what you gain," she said. "What you lose. All that."
"What do I have to do. What are my orders."
"An order is an empty drawer. You are already working for us. Even before you opened the envelope. Everything you do, you will ever do…"
I felt a thrill run through me… and at that moment I wanted her.
"You are working for us. For our firm. An empty drawer. It will gradually be possible – even necessary – to put into it the procedures of your assignments." I wanted her, maybe for the very reason that she did not exist, or existed only as a synthetic, programmed voice.
"So you've understood," came the voice, and at that moment it was a combination of both voices, the voice of the elderly man and of the synthetic woman.
"You are to kill him."
Translated by Heather Trebatická
