He gazed at her face, reading on it suspicion, sadness, and a bad mood. He felt like throwing the bouquet of roses on the floor, but he controlled himself. He knew that in the next few days he would have to con-trol himself in much more difficult situations.

"Does it bother you that I brought you flowers this evening?" he said. Sensing the irritation in his voice, his wife thanked him and went to fill a vase with water.

"That damned socialism!" Klima said next.

"What now?"

"Listen! They're always making us play for nothing. One time it's for the struggle against imperialism, another time it's to commemorate the revolution, still

another time it's for some big shot's birthday, and if I want to keep the band going, I have to agree to everything. You can't imagine how they got to me today."

"What was it?" she asked indifferently.

"The president of the Municipal Council turned up at rehearsal and she started telling us what we should play and what we shouldn't play and finally forced us to schedule a free concert for the Youth League. But the worst part is I'll have to spend all day tomorrow at a ridiculous conference where they're going to talk to us about the role of music in building socialism. One more day wasted, totally wasted! And right on your birthday!"

"They won't really keep you there all evening!"

"Probably not. But you can see what a state I'll be in when I come home! So I thought we could spend some quiet time together this evening," he said, taking hold of his wife's hands.

"That's nice of you," said Mrs. Klima, and Klima realized from her tone of voice that she didn't believe a word of what he had said about tomorrow's conference.