It was a few minutes before six, and the shops would close at six exactly. He rushed into a florist's to buy a gigantic bouquet of roses. What a difficult celebration he expected! He would have to pretend to be near her in heart and mind, would have to give himself over to her, show tenderness to her, amuse her, laugh with her, and never for a moment stop thinking about a faraway belly. He would make an effort to utter affectionate words, but his mind would be far away, imprisoned in the dark cell of a stranger's womb.

He realized that it would be too much for him to spend this birthday at home, and he decided no longer to delay going to see Ruzena.

But this was not an agreeable prospect either. The mountain spa seemed like a desert to him. He knew no one there. Except perhaps for that American taking the waters, who, behaving like a rich bourgeois of the old days, had invited the whole group to his hotel suite after the concert. He had plied them with excellent drink and with women chosen from among the resort's staff, so that he was indirectly responsible for what happened afterward between Ruzena and Klima. Ah, if only that man, who had shown him such unreserved warmth, were still at the spa! Klima clung to his image as if to a last hope, for in moments such as those he was about to experience a man needs nothing

more than the friendly understanding of another man.

He returned to the theater and stopped at the doorkeeper's cubicle. He picked up the phone and asked for long distance. Soon he heard Ruzena's voice. He told her he would be coming to see her tomorrow. He made no reference to the news she had announced some hours before. He spoke to her as if they were carefree lovers.

In passing he asked: "Is the American still there?"

"Yes!" said Ruzena.

Feeling relieved, he repeated with somewhat more ease than before that he was greatly looking forward to seeing her. "What are you wearing?" he asked then.