A Swarm of Dust Page 10

  ‘You could be wrong!’ Janek interrupted him. The professor looked up and stared at him. The frames of his glasses were so translucent that a blinding light reflected from them. ‘Sorry?’ he said.

  ‘You could be wrong!’ said Janek Hudorovec. ‘Grades are not a measure of intelligence. Certainly not with the system of teaching that we have at this university.’

  ‘Just a moment,’ said the professor. ‘If I understand you correctly, you are denying that the teaching system at this university is adequate?’

  ‘That’s correct!’ snapped Janek. He felt comforted, as if he had finally found a meaning for everything that filled him with uncertainty.

  ‘An interesting attitude,’ said the professor. ‘But you certainly wouldn’t dare say it if you hadn’t already thought it through and had evidence for it.’ He removed his glasses and wiped the lenses with a soft cloth. ‘Why, for instance, do you doubt that the grades are appropriate? Are you convinced that I won’t know how to evaluate your knowledge? That means a vote of no confidence in advance and in your eyes our whole interaction will be fruitless. Are you aware of that?’

  ‘I am, professor,’ replied Janek Hudorovec tersely.

  ‘If you’re so sure that we are incapable of correctly evaluating your knowledge, why do you even submit to testing? Why come to me at all?’

  He put his glasses back on, gave Janek a sharp look and put his hands together on the desk.

  ‘Probably I won’t be able to answer. Perhaps my actions made sense up until now – I mean, with the intention of passing the exam. Until I entered this room. Now it seems pointless answering your questions and you confirming whether I satisfy some criterion – pointless, because I have to accept in advance that your questions are appropriate. If I don’t accept that, then it’s perfectly clear that I don’t satisfy the criterion, whatever it is. In other words, we cannot talk, no polemic is possible between us while I have the desire that my knowledge satisfies the objective capacity for some particular job or kind of work! While that desire persists, I have to accept that your questions are appropriate. But it’s not clear – and even less proven – whether your questions and the criteria for your evaluation of my knowledge are objectively appropriate. I’m telling you this because it would seem dishonest to keep quiet about my doubts regarding the point of what we are doing in order to achieve a positive grade that would confirm my supposed suitability for some job or work. What I want to say, professor, is that the students know precisely what your criteria are with regard to assessing their knowledge, so their main aim is to satisfy those criteria, not to really learn anything. They want to get past the obstacle – in other words, university – as quickly as possible and with a qualification in their hands throw themselves into the intrigue of collective life. Students see university only as a barrier they have to leap over, for without the right documents the machine will not accept them.’

  After a short pause he continued. ‘Study at this university is just a struggle for pieces of paper, professor, not for knowledge. And it is easy for anyone who submits to your criteria. It’s clear that anyone who is interested only in a paper qualification will take advantage of the absurdity and rigidity of your criteria, and it’s here where the big mistake begins. If someone wants to satisfy your criteria he doesn’t need to be intelligent, there’s absolutely no need for him to know how to think, he just needs to be a little bit cunning and to deceive you with your own words and create the impression that he ‘revised’ for the exam … Stupid word, revised. Your intellectual training has the failing that a person does not learn to think and draw conclusions – all you do is plant some dogmas in their brain, which very quickly evaporate. And even if they didn’t, there is no way they would be able to make any kind of use of them in life. You, for instance, evaluate only whether I have remembered certain rules, dates, quotes, decrees, and you’re not interested in my personal attitude to things and how I could defend it. If an hour before an exam a student wants to memorise your rules, he requires no intelligence. So I sincerely doubt that the grades we get are a measure of knowledge or ability. You send into the world premature infants and in doing so you delude yourself that you are an excellent teacher … That’s what I wanted to say, professor. Not with the intention of offending you. If I wanted to offend you, I’m sure I’d try a different approach. I merely wish to define my attitude to your criteria and thus give the right shape to our discussion, if any discussion arises during this exam. I am interested in the heart and soul of law, whereas you, it seems to me, are interested only in its formal framework.’

  When he stopped talking, the professor stared at his hands on the desk for some time, as if checking that his fingernails were clean. ‘Your opinion about my criteria does not offend me in the least,’ he said eventually. His voice vibrated slightly, as if he was trying not to exceed its usual volume. ‘I know my criteria very well and have been using them for years. But no one has ever challenged them in such a bold way before. I can only conclude that there is some goal you wish to achieve by doing so, but I am unable to work out what it might be. That I send into the world premature infants is nonsense, even you must admit. I don’t teach you to think, you must know how to do that before you get here! If you detest the material you have to learn, then I can’t help you and I suggest that you go and study elsewhere. And if you have such doubts about my judgement, if you are unable to accept the appropriateness of my questions, as you indicated, since it would be hypocritical, then I don’t understand why you came, why you don’t give up on exams and why you have this record book. And if the university is a barrier for you, as you claim it is for all the others, then jump over it, it won’t be difficult for you, but if you don’t need to, then I can’t understand what you’re doing here. A different university from the one currently available to you does not exist, as you no doubt know! And I have to emphasise that it doesn’t matter to me what you do – if you don’t want to be examined, then the door is there, I won’t be sorry to see you make use of it. If, on the other hand, you want this grade, because you need it for some reason or other, then I am obliged to ask you some questions. It’s your decision!’

  For some time Janek looked him straight in the eye. The professor did not want to look away first. But staring became unpleasant, so they both suddenly lowered their gaze.

  ‘I feel as if we don’t understand each other, professor, and that we won’t. You accuse me of having some goal – that is your defence – but I don’t … In fact, I do … maybe that’s it … it has just become clear to me that I have to stop playing the game, for the rules have become intolerable to me. If I answered your questions now, I’d be doing so tongue-in-cheek. It would be pointless … Maybe it’s true what you said; you’ve no idea what I’m doing here. I don’t know either. Maybe I was also looking for a piece of paper, because that’s what I was sent here for, that’s the idea I’ve become accustomed to. But because there’s nothing I want to acquire through qualifications, because I don’t want a bigger slice of the cake, to be precise, there’s no point pretending I do. I would be registered by my pieces of paper. But what about the real me, professor? Where would I be? No one would say Hudorovec, but the law graduate, or something like that. In short, professor, I don’t want to be documented. If I now had to answer your questions, I would feel as if you were skinning me alive.’

  ‘Mr Hudoróvec … ’

  ‘It’s not Hudoróvec, professor, but Hudorovec.’

  ‘Of course, my apologies … what I want to say is … wouldn’t you still … Look, tomorrow you may see things differently and you may regret what you’ve said today … You’re a very independent young man, a very rebellious young man, and I like that, I must admit … but a slightly more realistic view of the world would serve you better. You’ll have to eat, you’ll have a family … do you intend to leave university? What will you do, chop firewood, make bricks, sell newspapers? Climb over this barrier and when your future is guaranteed you can concern yourse
lf with such thoughts as much as you like. I can understand that you are burdened by the administrative side of study, because you have more sense of space and independence than is usual … but you need to live, young man, believe me. It won’t cost you anything to grit your teeth once or twice a year. Don’t let your feelings lead you to make the wrong decision … I’m ready to be as open as possible with you, just say what theme would suit you … But don’t do something stupid for which you’d pay a high price.’

  ‘I’d like to thank you for your benevolence, professor. But you’re looking at things from a completely different point of view. You’re thinking about food on the table and material existence. But believe me when I say that five months without food would not cause me the same torment as would answering your questions now. This is not a rebellion against you, please believe that. I simply can’t do this … ’

  ‘All right, young man, if it’s so repulsive to you to answer questions, give me your record book, I’ll give you a grade as if you had answered my questions … I’m sure you’re familiar with the material … but don’t take any risks … come on … the grade will come in useful when you reconsider.’

  ‘No!’ snapped Janek, jumping up from his seat and snatching the record book from the desk. The professor’s face showed his disappointment. ‘You can’t do that, because for me the awareness that I’ve been evaluated, validated, is worse than being asked questions. I don’t want to be documented in any way whatsoever. I shouldn’t have come, professor, or I should have left earlier. You’re trying to understand me, but you’re coming at it from the wrong direction and so in truth you don’t understand me at all. We’re not going to achieve anything. It’s a waste of time. I’m going!’

  He stuffed his record book in his coat pocket, turned and went to the door.

  It was cold on the street. There was a slight drizzle and he turned up his coat collar. There were puddles on the pavement and water found its way into his shoes. Passing car tyres made a sizzling noise, like hot butter. Engines were revving. On the narrow crossings people were lifting their umbrellas high in the air so they could squeeze past each other … The traffic policemen whistled. The traffic stopped. And then continued …

  The train sat at the platform. It had two blue and white carriages that had been washed so clean by the rain that they glistened. It was still drizzling, but in the direction the train was pointing the sky was lighter. Inside the carriage there was a smell of wet coats. It was gloomy. Full. Hats, bald patches, moving heads. Gestures, murmuring. The ticket inspector went past with his clippers in hand. Over there … a woman with children …

  ‘Is this seat free?’

  ‘So far it be,’ the woman said with a nod. He was startled by her dialect. It startled him like closeness, and he felt as if he was in another world, a past world. He put his suitcase on the rack, sat down … the soft seat gave way beneath him …

  The woman looked at him with curiosity, but not intrusively. Then she stared out the window, only occasionally throwing him a quick glance. Words flew from all directions, long drawn out words with singsong vowels. It was raining lightly but inside it was warm, people were creating warmth. The speech satisfied, calmed … stirred, but also lulled to sleep. He sank into a sense of comfort. Drops ran down the window panes, which were wet and blurred … Outside, on the platform, a large white clock hanging from the roof. A few more minutes … Moments, tiny moments …

  People were rushing past with umbrellas, milling around, looking, waiting. An unclear voice came from the loudspeaker, a rainy voice … The carriage shook, below an engine coughed and began to run, they were warming up … A whistle from the left … ‘Attention, attention!’ … Pouring, crowds, waves of sound … The black hand on the clock jumped a minute. A locomotive with sooty wagons went whistling past … rattling … a flash … The platform again …

  He thought he saw Daria in the crowd … that she had pushed her way to the front and was looking in each carriage window … She was wearing a grey coat and glasses … She only wore them at the theatre … She was already at the edge of the platform, she stood there for some time as if thinking something over … She was moving forward, she would come … It had seemed to him that it was over, finished! And now here she was! Dragging things out, trying to reword them … If she wanted to say goodbye, okay, but there was no need.

  His first feeling was that she was being intrusive. After all, he was running away, and she was coming after him like a hunting dog … She’d grab him with her teeth and drag him back, onto the rainy streets, to the attic room, she’d tie him up, measure his thoughts … Let’s make love … grit your teeth, last to the end … You’re not responsible, not responsible … Don’t take risks, Mr Hudoróvec, overcome this obstacle, you’re not going to be a newspaper seller, surely … Away, away …

  She found him. She’s sitting here, beside him. Looking at him.

  ‘Aren’t you happy I came?’ There’s something in her eyes he’s never seen before, while in his she sees violent loathing, horror, swollen with revenge. ‘I couldn’t … I know I can’t explain anything to you now. You wouldn’t understand, you wouldn’t want to understand. You sank out of sight, you’re distant, you’re living in a different world. I wanted to prevent you returning home, I sensed it would happen. It’s my fault, I got it wrong … ’

  She stopped talking, nervously wringing her hands and looking at her lap. He said nothing. She waited, as if hoping that he would eventually say something. ‘If I began to speak of things that you were not used to between us, I would achieve nothing. If I were now to reveal some higher truth, I’d be even more sullied in your eyes. It’s clear to me that I can no longer follow you, that you’ve already gone beyond where my words or those of others can still influence you. Your letter revealed that. You’d been pushed too far. With my efforts to detain you, I probably ensured that you left even sooner. I could say I’m afraid what will become of you, but my fear means nothing. Nevertheless: what will the future bring? Have you thought of that? You’re leaving now, okay, but how will it all end? It’s been seven years, Janek, everything is different there. Maybe you’re returning to a world that no longer exists. And when you discover that, what then? That’s what I fear most, for in that moment you will react in the wrong way. I’m sure of that. Have you thought of that? Just tell me that, Janek! Have you thought of that?’

  ‘Listen, Daria, I don’t understand your concerns. Besides which, this is totally repulsive to me. You remind me of a wearisome nursery teacher who constantly follows you around, saying what colour’s this, what colour’s that? Why did you come? I told you in my letter how it was and if you can’t understand that, you who always understood me, then … then … I don’t know. You come here and start pestering me, although you know all too well how I feel if I am being pestered! You’re just a pathetic particle of dust, like all the others. Why are you trying to drag me back? Let me go. Let me return to where I belong. You’re different to how you were. Are you pretending? Either you were acting then or you’re acting now. Or you’re always acting. Stop being a millstone around my neck. That’s all I’m asking you. I don’t like you being near me. I don’t like it because I can’t tolerate it. Why that’s so, I don’t know and I don’t want to think about. It’s not your fault, it’s mine. Go. Do you understand? Go!’

  He was trembling slightly. Her coat smelled of rain. She got up. She offered him her hand. He did not move.

  ‘Won’t you give me your hand?’

  He stared at her.

  ‘Once I slaughtered some puppies … you know, their insides splattered everywhere … ’ He grimaced, his eyes darkened. He saw Daria was crying.

  A loud, convulsive guffaw burst from his chest, as if a rock had moved – it was violently victorious, a great satisfaction. People turned round. He could barely silence his laughter, and in the end it turned to a kind of loud choking sound, torn from the depths. He saw the girl opposite, wide-eyed, pressing against her mother, leaning
over a basket to reach her. The laughter erupted once more, saliva spraying around him as he shook … He saw that people were staring … He became aware he was doing something strange, the guffaw ended. Confused and frightened he stared through the window.

  Daria had gone … He wanted to go after her, she must be just outside by now. He pulled down the window, leaned into the rain, the engine coughed, the train moved … She wasn’t there … The crowd was swirling … umbrellas … going across the tracks … A voice came from the loudspeaker … The wheels clacked over the rails … He turned to his seat … He sank down … He felt the floor unsteady beneath him … It passed … click-clack, click-clack … Had she not understood him? Maybe the letter he sent her wasn’t clear. Yes, it was complicated, contradictory and … the whole time he, too, doubted whether he could express the right things …

  Dear Daria

  I decided to write to you. You know how hard it is for me to talk, that I don’t like talking. This isn’t connected with my stammer or with fear, I feel a real need to talk, it brings a kind of relief. But when I hear my voice, it seems to me that I am saying something other than what I want to say: if I shape my mouth to say A, I actually say B. That’s why I’m writing. The words are on paper, I don’t hear them, so the feeling of their superficiality is less marked. I don’t know why I’m so convinced that it is impossible to express what I want. I wondered whether I lacked the words, but I realised I have more than enough. But words themselves do not illustrate thoughts or feelings. A combination of words, the right tone, a word picture is needed if you want to express what you are thinking, if you want to be sure that words do not mock your intention! I can’t do that. There are enough words, but they need to be stronger, different. More intense. But they’re not. So I get the feeling that you can’t say anything with words, at best they’re only suitable for referring to visible objects. But we’re used to them and in the end they’re all we have. So I know in advance that I won’t be able to say what I want to say. But even the fact of trying brings me a measure of relief. These words are a monologue, though they are intended for you and you will read them. Through my irregular study of psychology, which I latched onto following your advice, I learned only this: that we are constantly talking only to ourselves, other people are merely a means to this end. Even when I talked to you, you meant only as much to me as I thought I needed to make up my world. Your relation to me is the same. You admitted as much yourself. You said you were interested in my problem. You’re interested whether your theory of the influence of events on the human mind is right. You needed me. And you used me. You were frank with me and I’ll be the same: when I write to you, I write to myself, I remove the weight of my tormented past, or as you would say I remove it in such a way that you understand it. I want to speak of my past, although you are convinced that you already know it. That is not the case. Even I only began to think of it some days ago (probably thanks to you, it’s true). I want to speak of it, even though I know I won’t be able to find my way to the truth. And even if I did succeed, I wouldn’t be able to express the truth, for words do not suffice, as I’ve already said.