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Again and again she returned to that situation： How long was he away when he went for the coffee？ Surely a minute at the least。 Maybe two or even three。 And what had he been up to for so long in that miniature anteroom？ Or had he gone to the toilet？ She tried to remember hearing the door shut or the water flush。 No； she was positive she'd heard no water； she would have remembered that。 And she was almost certain the door hadn't closed。 What had he been up to in that anteroom？
It was only too clear。 If they meant to trap her； they would need more than the engineer's testimony。 They would need incontrovertible evidence。 In the course of his suspiciously long absence； the engineer could only have been setting up a movie camera in the anteroom。 Or； more likely； he had let in someone with a still camera； who then had photographed them from behind the curtain。
Only a few weeks earlier； she had scoffed at Prochazka for failing to see that he lived in a concentration camp； where privacy ceased to exist。 But what about her？ By getting out from under her mother's roof； she thought in all innocence that she had once and for all become master of her privacy。 But no； her mother's roof stretched out over the whole world and would never let her be。 Tereza would never escape her。
As they walked down the garden…lined steps leading back to the square； Tomas asked her； What's wrong？
Before she could respond； someone called out a greeting to Tomas。
27
He was a man of about fifty with a weather…beaten face； a farm worker whom Tomas had once operated on and who was sent to the spa once a year for treatment。 He invited Tomas and Tereza to have a glass of wine with him。 Since the law prohibited dogs from entering public places； Tereza took Karenin back to the car while the men found a table at a nearby cafe。 When she came up to them； the man was saying； We live a quiet life。 Two years ago they even elected me chairman of the collective。 Congratulations； said Tomas。
You know how it is。 People are dying to move to the city。 The big shots； they're happy when somebody wants to stay put。 They can't fire us from our jobs。
It would be ideal for us； said Tereza。 You'd be bored to tears； ma'am。 There's nothing to do there。 Nothing at all。
Tereza looked into the farm worker's weather…beaten face。 She found him very kind。 For the first time in ages； she had found someone kind！ An image of life in the country arose before her eyes： a village with a belfry； fields； woods； a rabbit scampering along a furrow； a hunter with a green cap。 She had never lived in the country。 Her image of it came entirely from what she had heard。 Or read。 Or received unconsciously from distant ancestors。 And yet it lived within her； as plain and clear as the daguerreotype of her great…grandmother in the family album。
Does it give you any trouble？ Tomas asked。 The farmer pointed to the area at the back of the neck where the brain is connected to the spinal cord。 I still have pains here from time to time。
Without getting out of his seat； Tomas palpated the spot and put his former patient through a brief examination。 I no longer have the right to prescribe drugs； he said after he had finished； but tell the doctor taking care of you now that you talked to me and I recommended you use this。 And tearing a sheet of paper from the pad in his wallet； he wrote out the name of a medicine in large letters。
28
They started back to Prague。
All the way Tereza brooded about the photograph showing her naked body embracing the engineer。 She tried to console herself with the thought that even if the picture did exist； Tomas would never see it。 The only value it had for them was as a blackmailing device。 It would lose that value the moment they sent it to Tomas。
But what if the police decided somewhere along the way that they couldn't use her？ Then the picture would become a mere plaything in their hands； and nothing would prevent them from slipping it in an envelope and sending it off to Tomas。 Just for the fun of it。
What would happen if Tomas were to receive such a picture？ Would he throw her out？ Perhaps not。 Probably not。 But the fragile edifice of their love would certainly come tumbling down。 For that edifice rested on the single column of her fidelity； and loves are like empires： when the idea they are founded on crumbles； they； too； fade away。
And now she had an image before her eyes： a rabbit scampering along a furrow； a hunter with a green cap； and the belfry of a village church rising up over the woods。
She wanted to tell Tomas that they should leave Prague。 Leave the children who bury crows alive in the ground； leave the police spies； leave the young women armed with umbrellas。 She wanted to tell him that they should move to the country。 That it was their only path to salvation。
She turned to him。 But Tomas did not respond。 He kept his eyes on the road ahead。 Having thus failed to scale the fence of silence between them； she lost all courage to speak。 She felt as she had felt when walking down Petrin Hill。 Her stomach was in knots； and she thought she was going to be sick。 She was afraid of Tomas。 He was too strong for her； she was too weak。 He gave her commands that she could not understand； she tried to carry them out； but did not know how。
She wanted to go back to Petrin Hill and ask the man with the rifle to wind the blindfold around her eyes and let her lean against the trunk of the chestnut tree。 She wanted to die。
29
Waking up； she realized she was at home alone。
She went outside and set off in the direction of the embankment。 She wanted to see the Vltava。 She wanted to stand on its banks and look long and hard into its waters； because the sight of the flow was soothing and healing。 The river flowed from century to century； and human affairs play themselves out on its banks。 Play themselves out to be forgotten the next day； while the river flows on。
Leaning against the balustrade； she peered into the water。 She was on the outskirts of Prague； and the Vltava had already flowed through the city； leaving behind the glory of the Castle and churches； like an actress after a performance； it was tired and contemplative； it flowed on between its dirty banks； bounded by walls and fences that themselves bounded factories and abandoned playgrounds。
She was staring at the water—it seemed sadder and darker here—when suddenly she spied a strange object in the middle of the river； something red—yes； it was a bench。 A wooden bench on iron legs； the kind Prague's parks abound in。 It was floating down the Vltava。 Followed by another。 And another and another； and only then did Tereza realize that all the park benches of Prague were floating downstream； away from the city； many； many benches； more and more； drifting by like the autumn leaves that the water carries off from the woods—red； yellow； blue。
She turned and looked behind her as if to ask the passersby what it meant。 Why are Prague's park benches floating downstream？ But everyone passed her by； indifferent； for little did they care that a river flowed from century to century through their ephemeral city。
Again she looked down at the river。 She was grief…stricken。 She understood that what she saw was a farewell。
Whe