THE THIRTY-FOURTH
‘I still forgot to tell you…’
That sentence sounded to Eva Topolská like the refrain of some heavy song. Like this great, sad woman singing this long, reproachful song, or prayer, in which the weight of life is submitted to God alone — who else? What of all else have I forgotten to tell you? She walked along the embankment of this beautiful, foreign river and there, inside her, in the place she strove to avoid as much as possible, something black arose. She only wanted to watch it. To call it to life for a moment only, to make sure it wasn’t dead. That’s why she wanted to meet up with Martin in London, and satisfy herself that she had been alive back then, that she had been through all that, that that was her back there.
That’s what these mobile phones do. You can be a
