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Vášová, Alta: Searching for the light (O hľadaní svetla in English)

Portre of Vášová, Alta

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O hľadaní svetla (Slovak)

Kľukaté biele chodby, oblé mäkké izby, ako náručie: náručie si ešte pamätá, veď náručím sa to začalo - posledné a tiché objatie, veď čo aj mal povedať? mama, ľúbim ťa, mama, nechcem, mama, nenechaj ma tu - posledné objatie bolo tiché a potom už iba: biele chodby, ktoré ho v mäkkých vlnách posúvajú z miestnosti do miestnosti - mnoho miestností a málo putujú­cich, vždy sa až zľakol, keď sa v niektorej izbe neocitol sám. Bol plachý, čím hrdší, tým plachejší, hrdý bol na vedomosti: potácal sa v labyrinte ríše rozumu, tak sa volala jedna z prvých kníh, ku ktorým sa dostal, a poctivo ju prežul riadok po riadku ako správny novic. Hoci bola ešte priblízko náručiu, objatiu na rozlúčku. Ale veď už v tom objatí bola prítomná zmienka o rozume, prednesená jemným rozcitliveným hlasom, no cítil z neho pýchu: pýchu na neho, na syna. Aká som len hrdá, Andy... dokázal si to! To sa len málokomu podarí... a teba sem prijali... aký si mi len múdry... Nesmieš ma sklamať, Andy môj.
Tie slová iste ve
ľa neznamenali, veď na ne ani neodpovedal, mlčal zaťato a urazene - lenže prečo si ich potom zapamätal, načo si zapamätal aj náručie, keď ho potom nahradili oblé chodby a izby... Veď o svojej múdrosti sa potom presvedčil rukolapnejšie, hoci aj bez objatia: vtedy o nej vskutku nič ne­vedel, hádam len to, že má chuť a schopnosť dozvedať sa, premýšľať, pamätať si a kombinovať. Možno slasť? Lenže aj v izbách, do ktorých ho chodby mäkko posúvali a odovzdáva­li, čakala slasť: slasť prenikania do zákutí vedy, do zákutí roz­manitých jazykov, no aj do najsúkromnejších zákutí, do seba. Pritom ho ešte len očakávala slasť najvyššia -
tušil, že dozrieva pre deň odchodu. Týmto očakávaním sa zaoberal čoraz častejšie, vyh
ľadával pramene, záznamy, vyse­dával nad nimi, mäkký a mliečny, na nerozoznanie od priestoru, ktorý ho tvaroval: natoľko zrástol s riedko obývanými svetlými chodbami a miestnosťami, že si ho už nevšimli ani kolegovia, ktorých, zaujatý úpornou prácou, predsa len stretol. Možno je ich tu viac rovnakých, možno poniektorí sa úplne zneviditeľnili. Nevšímaví a nepostrehnuteľní... Možno aj to je cesta, nenabažiť sa predsália a nedobýjať sa do sály života -
veď o dni odchodu sa písalo ako o počiatku premeny, raz opisovali akýsi strašidelný zámok, stojaci v lunaparku, prebeh­neš ním, ohromí ťa, prekvapí primitívnymi skúškami, a ty sa čo najskôr vymaníš: neprestanú ťa však už prenasledovať tváre, podobné zvieracím tlamám, nezbavíš sa vône striekajúcej kr­vi, nezaženieš spomienku na necudnosti, nezabudneš na výkri­ky, trýzeň, hlasný smiech, pochabosť. Postretáš
ľudí v radosti, vo vášni i v hrôze, uvidíš ľudí zúbožených, odvrhnutých, aj zúfalo zakliesnených do seba... Inokedy popisovali prírodu: animálnu, všetko obklopujúcu a zahŕňajúcu, predierajúcu sa medzi dlaždicami, pučiacu vždy znova, disponujúcu drobnuč­kými nôžkami, ktoré ju bleskovo ukryjú do štrbín, schopnú uživiť sa hocičím, živými telami i ľudským odpadom, cemen­tom i jedmi, skalami aj rosou, aj svetlom, čírym svetlom... prírodu, disponujúcu krídelkami, ostrými sosákmi, takmer ne­viditeľnými klieštikmi, ktoré odštikávajú zo živého mäsa... Inde pripodobňovali odchod k tunelu, na konci ktorého čaká svetlo, v ktorom prebehneš všetkým, čo si sa dosiaľ dozvedel, čím viac vieš, tým viac pochopíš, tým viac si užiješ - tvoje vedomosti budú akoby personifikované, potupené a doložené všednodennosťou - nik však nezamlčal, že čas svetla, do ktorého každý z pisateľov napokon dospel, bol vlastne ríšou spomienok. A že so živočíšnosťou, ktorá ho na prechodný čas opantala, sa na vlastný údiv stotožnil.
H
ľadal ďalej, bádal v prameňoch, zaujímali ho už len miest­nosti, v ktorých boli uložené materiály o tejto jedinej otázke, pohrdol dutinami kremenných žíl, aktívnymi zónami, aspektmi symetrie a spismi o všeličom inom, čo sa ešte včera chystal zvládnuť. No hoci nadobro opustil svoj doterajší pracovný plán, nenašiel ani zmienku o tom, čo ho najviac lákalo: dobre vedel, že sa vo svojom súkromnom strašidelnom zámku, ktorý ho očakáva, že sa vo svojom tuneli, vo svojom pekle znova stretne s objatím.
Nadlho ho pomýlili a zaviedli diela, v ktorých sa spomínal podobný tunel, ten sa však spájal s akýmsi prevtelením a s fyzickým zánikom. Aj tam vraj čaká svetlo. Svetlo, osve­tlenie, osvietenie, oslepenie... viac sa o tom nedozvedel. Nikde nič o svetle, nič bližšie, slepí hádam nemôžu vypovedať, pre prudkú žiaru nevidia.
O to plachejšie sa blížil k východu. Čo najdlhšie s odchodom otáľal -
napokon však pevne zavrel oči a vykročil. To, čo ho obklo­pilo vonku, nemohol ani s najväčšou fantáziou prirovnať k tomu, čo načítal. Krútňava pachov a zápachov, vír nešetrných doty­kov, preľudnenie, predsa však závan domáckosti. Utiahol sa k múru a obozretne pootvoril oči. Stál pri drsnom betóne, okolo sa preháňali autá, všetky s vytýčeným cieľom, ľudia v nich vyzerali zakonzervovaní. Svoje miesto vyhľadal pomocou ma­py. Povzbudila ho prehľadnosť krivolakých a nezmyselných faktov, len čo sa v podobe bodov a čiar ocitli na papieri.
Spravil si rozvrh a čoskoro zvládol všetko nevyhnutné. Na­zbierané vedomosti odovzdával v zredukovanom a ľahko po­chopiteľnom tvare ďalej, staral sa o svoje bývanie, o jedlo a ošatenie, naučil sa jazdiť vo vlastnom vozidle a zvládol aj zdvorilé úsmevy a reči. Nikde ani stopy po krvi, po živočíšno­sti, po čomsi, na čo sa nezabúda. Videlo sa mu, že ho oklamali - lenže svedectvá klamať nemohli: aj keď narazil len na mam umenia, niekde musel byť ukrytý aj jeho základ. Narazil len na pustú rutinu a privykal si na ňu, na zodraté podošvy, vycho­dené skratky, vyjazdené cesty, cestičky a vyšúchané stoličky -
zakotvil, čoby nie: stalo sa mu čo ostatným, stretla ho túžba, manželstvo aj deti. Žil v dome, zistil, kde je jeho skriňa, posteď, knižnica aj stôl, vedel, kedy sa podáva jedlo, ktorý syn ho porazí v šachu a ktorý na to ešte nedorástol, vedel aj, kedy treba pokosiť trávnik. Medzi odstrihnutými steblami zazrel niekedy burinu, natoľko múdru, že neprerástla výšku určenú kosačkou, našiel tam aj maličké kvietky, podobné žltým, červeným a belasým bodkám. Zredukovaná príroda ho nijako nerušila, vedel aj o neviditeľných mikrotvoroch, žijúcich v kadejakej spraši, vo vlhkej škvrne, alebo aj v ňom, v jeho vlastnom tele: bola to príroda, takpovediac zalezená v kryte, ktorá je navyše potreb­nou: zbaviť sa jej nemôžeš, ak sa zároveň nezbavíš aj seba. Vďaka neviditeľnosti natoľ neupomínala na to, že vyhrá ten, kto ostane posledný -
a odrazu to ním zalomcovalo. Vytratil sa zo svojho denného rozvrhu, ani nevedel ako. Ihneď sa však dozvedel prečo. Ocitol sa v ponižujúcom postavení, doslova pod školskou lavicou, nechal sa trápiť, a ona mu unikala, vyplašená a rozosmiata -
nasledoval ju, aj prenasledoval, hoci nepatričný medzi divou mládežou: každé jeho slovo znelo ako z iného sveta, každé upozornilo na jeho výlučnosť, až napokon prestal so slovami a začal s alkoholom. Dočkal sa objatia, prepadol sa doň a dočkal sa aj odbivu. Stal sa prvým z bláznov, bláznom s rolničkami, ktoré prehlušovali jeho odlišnosť. Nestrihaná brada a vlasy, večný úsmev, iba ruky si nezabúdal ošetriť, nemohol dopustiť, aby stratili cit, chcel nimi pohládzať: dodávali mu správy o nej, o jej koži, o plôškach a oblinkách a vysielali správy o chvení v ňom.
Stal sa človekom bez reality, opäť sa potácal v nekonečnej krajine objavov, manželstvo bolo zabudnuté, no v povolaní exceloval. V dlhých nociach udivoval nenásytnou nespútanosťou najprv v krčmách a potom u nej, na zemi, na stole, v posteli: prebudila sa v ňom predstavivosť, napájala sa skutočnosťou, najskutočnejšou skutočnosťou -
vo chvíľach triezvosti neveril. Hľadel a neveril, s kým to kráča ruka v ruke, koho to objíma, či ozaj pridŕža to telo s malou hlavou a s jemnými chodidlami -
dovolil, aby ho obliekala do nežehlených nohavíc a tričiek, rád bol jej nekaždodenným doplnkom, náramkom, kabelkou, čačkou -
občas si spravili tichý deň, potrebovali sa spamätať. Navaril obed, uvarila kávu, umyl riad, poukladala taniere, vidličky aj nože, vyladil tichú hudbu, umyla rnu chrbát, vysušil jej vlasy, hľadeli si do očí, usrnievali sa do čerstvo umytých tvárí, skú­mali, koho to ľúbia, chystali sa navzájom prekvapiť -
zaviedol ju na miesto, ktoré mimovoľne zbadal a potom mu uveril: na zabudnuté miesto, kde všetko bzučalo, liezlo, hýbalo sa, otváralo a zatváralo kalichy kvetov, na miesto, kde nik nedovidel pre múry polozboreného domu, kde do kúpeľne, predizby a spálne prerastala tráva a mach, nikým nestrihaná, šteklivá tráva. Narýchlo jej ešte porozprával o objatí, o tom, ako nevedel zabudnúť na matku. Teraz vie, prečo: aj ona musela byť dychtivá, mladá a svieža, keď sa s ním kedysi lúčila -
skúsili si to, pokúsili sa o objatie, ktoré by prehlušilo detskú spomienku... nikdy nepomyslel, že by mohla žiarliť, ona! a ešte k tomu na matku! o ktorej aj tak už nič nevedel, nenašiel si čas, aby sa ozval, vyzvedal, napísal -
prisahal, láskal, zadúšal sa -
potom nastalo to svetlo. Koniec.
Keď sa prebral, bol sám. Prevaľoval sa v tichu. Odrazu chaos, lekári, sestričky, odrazu zápach, ozaj krv. Pripustil si, že ju už neuvidí. Návštevy, manželka, synovia. Zaiste ju už neuvidí. Rehabilitácia, prvé kroky, kontroly. Po nej ani pamiatky.
Spomenul si na svetlo. Osvetlenie, osvietenie, oslepenie... dávny otáznik. Žiadalo sa mu spomínať -
popamäti sa vrátil do domu, k skrini, ku knižnici, k deťom, poslepiačky našiel pracovňu -
sadol si za stôl a zapálil stolnú lampu. Vzápätí pochopil. Už pred ním nezataja vonkoncom nič: za stolom stolička, okolo čistá štvorhranná izba, pred ním obdĺžniková stolová doska. Svetlo vydáva stolná lampa. To je všetko. Prosté a prirodzené. Vrchol.


PublisherOsudia, Slovenský spisovateľ 1995

Searching for the light (English)

Corridors white and winding, rooms soft and rounded, like arms in an embrace: he could still remember the embrace, after all it was an embrace that began it all – that last, silent hug, after all what could he have said? Mummy, I love you, Mummy, I don’t want to, Mummy, don’t leave me here – that last hug had been silent and then only the white corridors, which moved him along in soft waves from room to room – many rooms and few people moving through them, he always felt startled when he found himself in one of them  alone. He was shy, the prouder, the shyer, he was proud of his knowledge: he staggered around in the labyrinth of the land of reason, that was the title of one of the first books he came across and he ruminated over line after line like a proper novice. Even though it was still very near to the embrace, the parting hug. Yet even in that hug there was a reference to reason, pronounced in a gentle, emotional voice, in which he could sense pride: pride in him, her son. How proud I am, Andy… you’ve made it! Very few people do… you’ve been given a place here… how clever you are… You mustn’t disappoint me, Andy, dear.
            These words can’t have meant much, after all, he hadn’t even answered them, he had maintained an obstinate, offended silence – but why, then, had he remembered them later, and why had he remembered the arms that held him in an embrace, when rounded corridors and rooms had taken their place… After all, he had later found more convincing evidence of his mental ability, even without the embrace: then he really had known nothing of it, maybe only that he had the desire and ability to find out, to consider, to remember and to combine. Pleasure, perhaps? But in those rooms, into which the corridors softly pushed him, handing him over, pleasure also awaited him: the pleasure of peering into the nooks and crannies of science, of all kinds of languages, but also into those most intimate, within himself. While the greatest pleasure was still to come –
            he sensed he was preparing himself for the day of departure. He considered this expectation more and more often, he looked for sources, records, he pored over them, soft and milky as he was, indistinguishable from the space that was forming him: he grew to be so much a part of the sparsely inhabited well-lit corridors and rooms, that he went unnoticed even by his colleagues, who, though engrossed in his intensive work, he did still meet. There may have been more there like him, some of them may have achieved absolute invisibility. Unobservant and imperceptible… Maybe that is one way, not to tire of the anterooms and not
to force one’s way into the halls of life –
            after all, people had written about the day of departure as the beginning of a transformation. Sometimes they described a kind of sinister castle, standing in an amusement park; you run over to it, it astounds you, takes you by surprise with primitive ordeals and  very soon you find your way out: but you will still be haunted by faces like the muzzles of beasts, you won’t rid yourself of the smell of spurting blood, you will not ward off the memory of indecency, you will not forget the cries, the anguish, the loud laughter, the madness. You will meet people in joy, in passion and in horror, you will see people reduced to misery, abandoned, and hopelessly wrapped up in themselves… At other times they described nature: instinctive, all-surrounding and all-inclusive, pushing its way up between the paving stones, budding again and again, equipped with tiny legs, which immediately hide it in cracks, able to survive on anything at all, living bodies and human waste, cement and toxins, rocks and dew, and light, pure light… nature equipped with wings, sharp proboscises, almost invisible pincers, that nip off bits of living flesh… Elsewhere they likened the departure to a tunnel, at the end of which a light awaits you, in which you run through everything you have discovered so far, the more you know, the more you will understand, the more you will experience – your knowledge will seem personified, put to shame and enclosed in everydayness – however, no one denied that the time of the light which all the writers eventually reached, was really a land of memories. And that, to their own amazement, they identified themselves with the animality which for that transitional moment enfolded them.
            He continued his search, studying various sources, he was now only interested in rooms where materials relating to this one question were filed away; he scorned the hollows of quartz veins, active zones, aspects of symmetry and texts about all kinds of other things, which only yesterday he had intended to come to grips with. But although he had abandoned once and for all his previous plan of work, he couldn’t find so much as a mention of what fascinated him most: he knew very well that in his private, sinister castle, which was awaiting him, that in his own tunnel, in his own hell he would once again meet with that embrace.
            For a long time he was misled and misguided by works which mentioned a similar tunnel, but it was connected with some kind of reincarnation and with physical extinction. There, too, light was said to await you. Light, lighting, enlightening, blinding… that was all he could discover. Nothing  about the light itself, nothing more specific; I suppose the blind cannot testify, the brightness of the light has made it impossible for them to see.
            This made him even more timid about nearing the exit. He put off the moment of departure for as long as he was able –
            finally, however, he shut his eyes tightly and stepped outside. At no stretch of the imagination could what surrounded him there be compared to what he had read. A whirlpool of smells and stenches, a vortex of inconsiderate touches, too many people, but there was nevertheless a whiff of domestication. He backed away towards a wall, cautiously opening his eyes. He was standing beside rough concrete, with cars rushing past him, all with a planned destination, the people inside looking as if packed in tins. He studied his position with the help of a map. He was encouraged by the lucidity of the distorted and senseless facts the moment they were committed to paper in the form of dots and lines.
            He set himself a timetable and very soon he had mastered the essentials. He passed on the knowledge he had gained in a reduced and easily digested form, he saw to his accommodation, food and clothing, he learned to drive his own car and he even learned polite conversation and smiles. Not a trace of blood anywhere, not a trace of animality, of something that could not be forgotten. He thought they had deceived him – but the evidence could not deceive:  although he had only encountered the delusion of art,  its essence must be hidden somewhere. He encountered nothing but hollow routine and he got used to it, to worn-out soles, well-trodden short-cuts, rutted roads, beaten paths and chairs smooth with use –
            he settled down, of course he did: the same happened to him as to others, desire, marriage and children came his way. He lived in a house, he learned where his cupboard was, his bed, bookcase and table, he knew when meals were served, which son would beat him at chess and which had not yet reached that point, he also knew when to cut the lawn. Among the severed blades of grass, he sometimes glimpsed a weed wise enough not to outgrow the height set by the mower, he found tiny flowers there too, like yellow, red and pale blue dots. Diminished nature did not disturb him in any way, he knew about invisible micro-organisms that live in any kind of dusty soil, in a damp stain, or even within himself, inside his own body: it was nature taking shelter, you could say, and moreover it was necessary: you couldn’t get rid of it, unless you got rid of yourself at the same time. Thanks to its invisibility it didn’t remind you that the winner is the one that survives the longest –
            and suddenly something snapped inside him. He slipped out of  his daily routine, without knowing how. However, he immediately discovered why. He found himself in a humiliating position, literally cowering under a school bench, allowing himself to be tormented, and she escaped from him, startled and laughing –
            he followed her, even chased her, although he was clearly out of place among these wild young people: every word of his sounded as if from a different world, every word drew attention to his not belonging, until he finally gave up words and took to alcohol. He lived to see the embrace, he fell into it and lived to see admiration, too. He became the first among jesters, a jester with jingling bells, drowning his dissimilarity. Untrimmed beard and hair, a permanent smile, his hands were the only part of him he did not neglect, he couldn’t allow them to lose their feeling, he wanted to use them for stroking: they told him things about her, about her skin, about the little flat places and the curves and they informed him about those quivers inside.
            He became a man cut off from reality,  he staggered around once more in the boundless land of discoveries, marriage was forgotten, but in his profession he excelled. Through long nights he amazed everyone with his lack of restraint, first in pubs and then at her home, on the floor, on the table, in bed: she awoke  his imagination, she drank in reality, the most real reality –
            in sober moments  he could not believe it. He stared and could not believe with whom he was walking hand in hand, who he was embracing, or that he was really holding that body with that little head and those soft soles –
            he let her dress him  in crumpled trousers and T-shirts, he was glad to be her everyday accessory, bracelet, handbag, trinket –
            From time to time they had a quiet day, they needed to get back to normal. He cooked the lunch, she made the coffee, he washed the dishes, she put away the plates, knives and forks, he tuned in to some quiet music, she washed his back, he dried her hair, they gazed into each other’s eyes, smiled at their freshly-washed faces, studied who it was they loved, prepared to surprise each other –
            he took her to a place he first happened to notice and then became convinced about: a forgotten place where everything buzzed, crawled, moved, opened and closed the cups of flowers, to a place hidden from view by the walls of a half-ruined house, where the bathroom, hall and bedrooms were overgrown with grass and moss which no one had cut, grass that tickled. He hurriedly told her about that embrace, about the fact that he could not forget his mother. Now he knew why: she, too,  must have been eager, fresh and young when she had parted with him that time –
            they tried, they tried to achieve an embrace that would drown out that childhood memory… he would never have thought she could be jealous, she of all people! and of his mother! about whom he now knew nothing anyway, he hadn’t found the time to contact her, to find out, to write –
            he swore,  caressed, gasped for breath –
            then came that light. The end.
            When he came to, he was alone. He tossed and turned in silence. Suddenly chaos, doctors, nurses, suddenly a stench, real blood. He admitted to himself that he would never see her again. Visits, wife, sons. No doubt he would never see her again. Convalescence, his first steps, check-ups. She had disappeared without trace.
            He remembered the light. Lighting, enlightenment, blindness… the question mark of long ago. He felt the need to remember –
            blindly he felt his way back  home, to the cupboard, bookcase, children, his own study 
            he sat down at his desk and switched on the lamp. At that moment he understood. They were not keeping anything secret from him any more: a chair at a desk, a clean quadrangular room around him, a rectangular desk top. The light was coming from the table lamp. That was all. Simple and natural. The climax.




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