Читать книгу Fleeting Snow - Pavel Villikovsky - Страница 12

2.d

When I told this story to Štefan (I will use this official, neutral form of his name because neither Števo nor Pišta really suits him), he said: ‘It’s obvious what made you give in, you’d just been to the dentist’s. You were relieved it was over and wanted to share your joy with someone.’

I didn’t argue the point. I just wanted to show what a mistake it would be to draw far-reaching conclusions from my behaviour. To nail me to the cross of a character, metaphorically speaking. Can you tell if I am generous or kind from a single episode? And does the fact that for the rest of the year I haven’t helped any other homeless unfortunate buy soup make me an insensitive scrooge? What about that bearded Rom I bumped into in front of the Dunaj department store only yesterday, on whom I bestowed a couple of coins to help him pay 25 euros for a room in the hostel where he lives with his small son (if you don’t believe his story you can go and check it out for yourself; personally, I can’t be bothered).

‘I don’t have a character’, I said to Štefan, ‘I refuse to have one. I have only moods, a different one every minute, that’s all. I have not yet turned to stone. Accept me as being alive.’

Štefan said: ‘I know why you refuse to admit to having a character. You’re afraid it might be a formula based purely on the nature of your mistakes and failures.’