Eva would have been glad if the mischievous children had started their senseless phone calls again. She didn't want to complain about this annoying little matter to her husband. It was different when one faced such a disturbing, temporary problem on one's own.
What would Márk have done? Surely, he wouldn't have gotten a few kids into trouble either. Surely, he wouldn't have complained.
She acknowledged with slight disappointment that her husband was having a cheerful chat with a colleague about a phone call, a message that hadn't been delivered at the editorial office today.
She heard Márk jotting down a phone number he would need to call and schedule an appointment.
"Tomorrow we'll talk at the editorial office. This is not a telephone topic," the man concluded the conversation.
"The telephone ladies are eavesdropping," Eva thought.
At times, this sentence was spoken in a strict tone, disciplining the owners of curious ears beneath their curly, permed hair. Everyone knew when it was time to end a call. Other snippets of conversation could disturb the clarity of the line, or the line would become quieter.
Not that any of this discouraged the eavesdroppers from their favorite workplace activity. They happily listened next time as well, secure in their anonymity.
Eva did not resent them. Spending eight hours in front of the telephone switchboard, moving those wires here and there upon request after the blinking of the wall lamps, was boring. They couldn't even converse calmly with the person next to them. The dense flashing of the control panel didn't allow for relaxed conversation. Once they established a connection between two lines, sometimes they "forgot" to hang up the receiver and cheerfully listened in on strangers' conversations. Eight hours in front of the switchboard was boring.
Eva got up from the table. Before heading to the kitchen, she smoothed down her long, pleated, light-brown skirt. She tucked a rebellious strand of hair behind her ear. Perhaps she should get her hair permed as well.
She still had half an hour before she had to leave for Olga's.
"I have good news," Márk announced with a smile.
Eva sat beside her husband on the bright red, faux-leather kitchen corner sofa.
"The publisher called from the capital. I'll have to travel in the next few days."
This meant that Márk would receive instructions on what the censorship would allow. Perhaps the party would also request a few patriotic poems for the newspaper. All this did not mean that a person became divided. Lately, if no one heard, people whispered this word more and more often.
Eva wasn't happy to be alone for days, but she didn't want to complain about such petty things as hating the apartment's silence. She would organize outdoor activities for herself in the afternoon. Perhaps one day she would also visit her cousin.
"You mean about your new book?" the woman asked the obvious.
Márk had been working at the editorial office for eight years; during this time, he had published three novels and four volumes of poetry.
"Exactly. They want to see what it's about," Márk replied.
The phone rang again.
Eva didn't wait for her husband to pick up the receiver. Fully aware of her victory, she hurried to the hallway. She had already defeated the mischievous kids today by silencing the line.
"Hello!" she said confidently into the receiver.
She heard the rustling of paper, perhaps a homework notebook. Someone on the other end was turning pages. Otherwise, the line remained silent.
"Some kids are having fun," she informed Márk.
She was glad to say it, glad that now her husband also knew. She hadn't complained.
Her husband didn't comment on the call.
The clock cuckooed four times. She would soon have to leave for Olga's. Márk would place the receiver next to the device until the kids gave up calling.
Eva grabbed the two empty soda bottles. On her way back, she would also peek into the grocery store. The water from the tap, tinted by rust, was undrinkable.
"Don't linger too long; we have to leave for the theater at seven," Márk requested.
It was important to see the play from the beginning. Otherwise, he wouldn't be able to write a review.
The bus arrived around 4:07 p.m. at the stop near the block of flats. If she missed it, the next one would come in half an hour.
One last fleeting smile for her husband.
She put on her knitted cardigan under the autumn coat.
She tied the laces of her shoes into a neat bow.
She wouldn't hear the phone all afternoon.
She still had four minutes to reach the bus stop.
The clock cuckooed four again. Eva flinched at the sound.