Unspoken Words and Guilt

Without lifting his head from the pillow, he turned to her and nearly gasped: the grief burning in her eyes was unbearable.

"Tell me, Tereza, what's wrong? Something's been going on inside you lately. I can feel it. I know it."

"No." She shook her head. "There's nothing wrong."

"There's no point in denying it."

"It's still the same things," she said.

"The same things" meant her jealously and his infidelities.

But Tomas would not let up. "No, Tereza. This time it's something different. It's never been this bad before."

"Well then, I'll tell you," she said. "Go and wash your hair."

He did not understand.

The tone of her explanation was sad, unantagonistic, almost gentle. "For months now your hair has had a strong odor to it. It smells of female genitals. I didn't want to tell you, but night after night I've had to breathe in the groin of some mistress of yours."

The moment she finished, his stomach began hurting again. He was desperate. The scrubbings he'd put himself through! Body, hands, face, to make sure not the slightest trace of their odors remained behind. He'd even avoided their fragrant soaps, carrying his own harsh variety with him at all times. But he'd forgotten about his hair! It had never occurred to him!

Then he remembered the woman who had straddled his face and wanted him to make love to her with it and with the crown of his head. He hated her now. What stupid ideas! He saw there was no use denying it. All he could do was laugh a silly laugh and head for the bathroom to wash his hair.

But she stroked his forehead again and said, "Stay here in bed. Don't bother washing it out. I'm used to it by now."

His stomach was killing him, and he longed for peace and quiet. "I'll write to that patient of mine, the one we met at the spa. Do you know the district where his village is?"

"No."

Tomas was having great trouble talking. All he could say was, "Woods... rolling hills..."

"That's right. That's what we'll do. We'll go away from here. But no talking now..." And she kept stroking his forehead. They lay there side by side, neither saying a word. Slowly the pain began to recede. Soon they were both asleep.

- An excerpt from Milan Kundera's The Unbearable Lightness of Being