生命不能承受之轻-第9章

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10
He　called　her　back　to　pay　for　the　cognac。　He　closed　his　book　（the　emblem　of　the　secret　brotherhood）；　and　she　thought　of　asking　him　what　he　was　reading。
Can　you　have　it　charged　to　my　room？　he　asked。
Yes；　she　said。　What　number　are　you　in？　
He　showed　her　his　key；　which　was　attached　to　a　piece　of　wood　with　a　red　six　drawn　on　it。
That's　odd；　she　said。　Six。　
What's　so　odd　about　that？　he　asked。
She　had　suddenly　recalled　that　the　house　where　they　had　lived　in　Prague　before　her　parents　were　divorced　was　number　six。　But　she　answered　something　else　（which　we　may　credit　to　her　wiles）：　You're　in　room　six　and　my　shift　ends　at　six。　
Well；　my　train　leaves　at　seven；　said　the　stranger。
She　did　not　know　how　to　respond；　so　she　gave　him　the　bill　for　his　signature　and　took　it　over　to　the　reception　desk。　When　she　finished　work；　the　stranger　was　no　longer　at　his　table。　Had　he　understood　her　discreet　message？　She　left　the　restaurant　in　a　state　of　excitement。
Opposite　the　hotel　was　a　barren　little　park；　as　wretched　as　only　the　park　of　a　dirty　little　town　can　be；　but　for　Tereza　it　had　always　been　an　island　of　beauty：　it　had　grass；　four　poplars；　benches；　a　weeping　willow；　and　a　few　forsythia　bushes。
He　was　sitting　on　a　yellow　bench　that　afforded　a　clear　view　of　the　restaurant　entrance。　The　very　same　bench　she　had　sat　on　the　day　before　with　a　book　in　her　lap！　She　knew　then　（the　birds　of　fortuity　had　begun　alighting　on　her　shoulders）　that　this　stranger　was　her　fate。　He　called　out　to　her；　invited　her　to　sit　next　to　him。　（The　crew　other　soul　rushed　up　to　the　deck　other　body。）　Then　she　walked　him　to　the　station；　and　he　gave　her　his　card　as　a　farewell　gesture。　If　ever　you　should　happen　to　come　to　Prague。。。　
11
Much　more　than　the　card　he　slipped　her　at　the　last　minute；　it　was　the　call　of　all　those　fortuities　（the　book；　Beethoven；　the　number　six；　the　yellow　park　bench）　which　gave　her　the　courage　to　leave　home　and　change　her　fate。　It　may　well　be　those　few　fortuities　（quite　modest；　by　the　way；　even　drab；　just　what　one　would　expect　from　so　lackluster　a　town）　which　set　her　love　in　motion　and　provided　her　with　a　source　of　energy　she　had　not　yet　exhausted　at　the　end　of　her　days。
Our　day…to…day　life　is　bombarded　with　fortuities　or；　to　be　more　precise；　with　the　accidental　meetings　of　people　and　events　we　call　coincidences。　Co…incidence　means　that　two　events　unexpectedly　happen　at　the　same　time；　they　meet：　Tomas　appears　in　the　hotel　restaurant　at　the　same　time　the　radio　is　playing　Beethoven。　We　do　not　even　notice　the　great　majority　of　such　coincidences。　If　the　seat　Tomas　occupied　had　been　occupied　instead　by　the　local　butcher；　Tereza　never　would　have　noticed　that　the　radio　was　playing　Beethoven　（though　the　meeting　of　Beethoven　and　the　butcher　would　also　have　been　an　interesting　coincidence）。　But　her　nascent　love　inflamed　her　sense　of　beauty；　and　she　would　never　forget　that　music。　Whenever　she　heard　it；　she　would　be　touched。　Everything　going　on　around　her　at　that　moment　would　be　haloed　by　the　music　and　take　on　its　beauty。
Early　in　the　novel　that　Tereza　clutched　under　her　arm　when　she　went　to　visit　Tomas；　Anna　meets　Vronsky　in　curious　circumstances：　they　are　at　the　railway　station　when　someone　is　run　over　by　a　train。　At　the　end　of　the　novel；　Anna　throws　herself　under　a　train。　This　symmetrical　composition—the　same　motif　appears　at　the　beginning　and　at　the　end—may　seem　quite　novelistic　to　you；　and　I　am　willing　to　agree；　but　only　on　condition　that　you　refrain　from　reading　such　notions　as　fictive；　fabricated；　and　untrue　to　life　into　the　word　novelistic。　Because　human　lives　are　composed　in　precisely　such　a　fashion。
They　are　composed　like　music。　Guided　by　his　sense　of　beauty；　an　individual　transforms　a　fortuitous　occurrence　（Beethoven's　music；　death　under　a　train）　into　a　motif；　which　then　assumes　a　permanent　place　in　the　composition　of　the　individual's　life。　Anna　could　have　chosen　another　way　to　take　her　life。　But　the　motif　of　death　and　the　railway　station；　unforgettably　bound　to　the　birth　of　love；　enticed　her　in　her　hour　of　despair　with　its　dark　beauty。　Without　realizing　it；　the　individual　composes　his　life　according　to　the　laws　of　beauty　even　in　times　of　greatest　distress。
It　is　wrong；　then；　to　chide　the　novel　for　being　fascinated　by　mysterious　coincidences　（like　the　meeting　of　Anna；　Vronsky；　the　railway　station；　and　death　or　the　meeting　of　Beethoven；　Tomas；　Tereza；　and　the　cognac）；　but　it　is　right　to　chide　man　for　being　blind　to　such　coincidences　in　his　daily　life。　For　he　thereby　deprives　his　life　of　a　dimension　of　beauty。

12
Impelled　by　the　birds　of　fortuity　fluttering　down　on　her　shoulders；　she　took　a　week's　leave　and；　without　a　word　to　her　mother；　boarded　the　train　to　Prague。　During　the　journey；　she　made　frequent　trips　to　the　toilet　to　look　in　the　mirror　and　beg　her　soul　not　to　abandon　the　deck　of　her　body　for　a　moment　on　this　most　crucial　day　of　her　life。　Scrutinizing　herself　on　one　such　trip；　she　had　a　sudden　scare：　she　felt　a　scratch　in　her　throat。　Could　she　be　coming　down　with　something　on　this　most　crucial　day　of　her　life？
But　there　was　no　turning　back。　So　she　phoned　him　from　the　station；　and　the　moment　he　opened　the　door；　her　stomach　started　rumbling　terribly。　She　was　mortified。　She　felt　as　though　she　were　carrying　her　mother　in　her　stomach　and　her　mother　had　guffawed　to　spoil　her　meeting　with　Tomas。
For　the　first　few　seconds；　she　was　afraid　he　would　throw　her　out　because　of　the　crude　noises　she　was　making；　but　then　he　put　his　arms　around　her。　She　was　grateful　to　him　for　ignoring　her　rumbles；　and　kissed　him　passionately；　her　eyes　misting。　Before　the　first　minute　was　up；　they　were　making　love。　She　screamed　while　making　love。　She　had　a　fever　by　then。　She　had　come　down　with　the　flu。　The　nozzle　of　the　hose　supplying　oxygen　to　the　lungs　was　stuffed　and　red。
When　she　traveled　to　Prague　a　second　time；　it　was　with　a　heavy　suitcase。　She　had　packed　all　her　things；　determined　never　again　to　return　to　the　small　town。　He　had　invited　her　to　come　to　his　place　the　following　evening。　That　night；　she　had　slept　in　a　cheap　hotel。　In　the　morning；　she　carried　her　heavy　suitcase　to　the　station；　left　it　there；　and　roamed　the　streets　of　Prague　the　whole　day　with　Anna　Karenina　under　her　arm。　Not　even　after　she　rang　the　doorbell　and　he　opened　the　door　would　she　part　with　it。　It　was　like　a　ticket　into　Tomas's　world。　She　realized　that　she　had　nothing　but　that　miserable　ticket；　and　the　thought　brought　her　nearly　to　tears。　To　keep　from　crying；　she　talked　too　much　and　too　loudly；　and　she　laughed。　And　again　he　took　her　in　his　arms　almost　at　once　and　they　made　love。　She　had　entered　a　mist　in　which　nothing　could　be　seen　and　only　her　scream　could　be　heard。
13
It　was　no　sigh；　no　moan；　it　was　a　real　scream。　She　screamed　so　hard　that　Tomas　had　to　turn　his　head　away　from　her　face；　afraid　that　her　voice　so　close　to　his　ear　would　rupture　his　eardrum。　The　scream　was　not　an　expression　of　sensuality。　Sensuality　is　the　total　mobilization　of　the　senses：　an　individual　observes　his　partner　intently；　straining　to　catch　every　sound。　But　her　scream　aimed　at　crippling　the　senses；　preventing　all　seeing　and　hearing。　What　was　screaming　in　fact　was　the　naive　idealism　of　her　love　trying　to　banish　all　contradictions；　banish　the　duality　of　body　and　soul；　banish　perhaps　even　time。
Were　her　eyes　closed？　No；　but　they　were　not　looking　anywhere。　She　kept　them　fixed　on　the　void　of　the　ceiling。　At　times　she　twisted　her　head　violently　from　side　to　side。
When　the　scream　died　down；　she　fell　asleep　at　his　side；　clutching　his　hand。　She　held　his　hand　all　night。
Even　at　the　age　of　eight　she　would　fall　asleep　by　pressing　one　hand　into　the　other　and　making　believe　she　was　holding　the　hand　of　the　man　whom　she　loved；　the　man　of　her　life。　So　if

55
in　her　sleep　she　pressed　Tomas's　hand　with　such　tenacity；　we　can　understand　why：　she　had　been　training　for　it　since　childhood。
14
A　young　woman　forced　to　keep　drunks　supplied　with　beer　and　siblings　with　clean　underwear—instead　of　being　allowed　to　pursue　something　higher　—stores　up　great　reserves　of　vitality；　a　vitality　never　dreamed　of　by　university　students　yawning　over　their　books。　Tereza　had　read　a　good　deal　more　than　they；　and　learned　a　good　deal　more　about　life