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Now　that　Dubcek　is　back；　things　have　changed；　said　Tereza。
It　was　true：　the　general　euphoria　lasted　no　longer　than　the　first　week。　The　representatives　of　the　country　had　been　hauled　away　like　criminals　by　the　Russian　army；　no　one　knew　where　they　were；　everyone　feared　for　the　men's　lives；　and　hatred　for　the　Russians　drugged　people　like　alcohol。　It　was　a　drunken　carnival　of　hate。　Czech　towns　were　decorated　with　thousands　of　hand…painted　posters　bearing　ironic　texts；　epigrams；　poems；　and　cartoons　of　Brezhnev　and　his　soldiers；　jeered　at　by　one　and　all　as　a　circus　of　illiterates。　But　no　carnival　can　go　on　forever。　In　the　meantime；　the　Russians　had　forced　the　Czech　representatives　to　sign　a　compromise　agreement　in　Moscow。　When　Dubcek　returned　with　them　to　Prague；　he　gave　a　speech　over　the　radio。　He　was　so　devastated　after　his　six…day　detention　he　could　hardly　talk；　he　kept　stuttering　and　gasping　for　breath；　making　long　pauses　between　sentences；　pauses　lasting　nearly　thirty　seconds。
The　compromise　saved　the　country　from　the　worst：　the　executions　and　mass　deportations　to　Siberia　that　had　terrified　everyone。　But　one　thing　was　clear：　the　country　would　have　to　bow　to　the　conqueror。　For　ever　and　ever；　it　will　stutter；　stammer；　gasp　for　air　like　Alexander　Dubcek。　The　carnival　was　over。　Workaday　humiliation　had　begun。
Tereza　had　explained　all　this　to　Tomas　and　he　knew　that　it　was　true。　But　he　also　knew　that　underneath　it　all　hid　still　another；　more　fundamental　truth；　the　reason　why　she　wanted　to　leave　Prague：　she　had　never　really　been　happy　before。
The　days　she　walked　through　the　streets　of　Prague　taking　pictures　of　Russian　soldiers　and　looking　danger　in　the　face　were　the　best　of　her　life。　They　were　the　only　time　when　the　television　series　of　her　dreams　had　been　interrupted　and　she　had　enjoyed　a　few　happy　nights。　The　Russians　had　brought　equilibrium　to　her　in　their　tanks；　and　now　that　the　carnival　was　over；　she　feared　her　nights　again　and　wanted　to　escape　them。　She　now　knew　there　were　conditions　under　which　she　could　feel　strong　and　fulfilled；　and　she　longed　to　go　off　into　the　world　and　seek　those　conditions　somewhere　else。
It　doesn't　bother　you　that　Sabina　has　also　emigrated　to　Switzerland？　Tomas　asked。
Geneva　isn't　Zurich；　said　Tereza。　She'll　be　much　less　of　a　difficulty　there　than　she　was　in　Prague。　
A　person　who　longs　to　leave　the　place　where　he　lives　is　an　unhappy　person。　That　is　why　Tomas　accepted　Tereza's　wish　to　emigrate　as　the　culprit　accepts　his　sentence；　and　one　day　he　and　Tereza　and　Karenin　found　themselves　in　the　largest　city　in　Switzerland。
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He　bought　a　bed　for　their　empty　flat　（they　had　no　money　yet　for　other　furniture）　and　threw　himself　into　his　work　with　the　frenzy　of　a　man　of　forty　beginning　a　new　life。
He　made　several　telephone　calls　to　Geneva。　A　show　of　Sabina's　work　had　opened　there　by　chance　a　week　after　the　Russian　invasion；　and　in　a　wave　of　sympathy　for　her　tiny　country；　Geneva's　patrons　of　the　arts　bought　up　all　her　paintings。
Thanks　to　the　Russians；　I'm　a　rich　woman；　she　said；　laughing　into　the　telephone。　She　invited　Tomas　to　come　and　see　her　new　studio；　and　assured　him　it　did　not　differ　greatly　from　the　one　he　had　known　in　Prague。
He　would　have　been　only　too　glad　to　visit　her；　but　was　unable　to　find　an　excuse　to　explain　his　absence　to　Tereza。　And　so　Sabina　came　to　Zurich。　She　stayed　at　a　hotel。　Tomas　went　to　see　her　after　work。　He　phoned　first　from　the　reception　desk；　then　went　upstairs。　When　she　opened　the　door；　she　stood　before　him　on　her　beautiful　long　legs　wearing　nothing　but　panties　and　bra。　And　a　black　bowler　hat。　She　stood　there　staring；　mute　and　motionless。　Tomas　did　the　same。　Suddenly　he　realized　how　touched　he　was。　He　removed　the　bowler　from　her　head　and　placed　it　on　the　bedside　table。　Then　they　made　love　without　saying　a　word。
Leaving　the　hotel　for　his　Hat　（which　by　now　had　acquired　table；　chairs；　couch；　and　carpet）；　he　thought　happily　that　he　carried　his　way　of　living　with　him　as　a　snail　carries　his　house。　Tereza　and　Sabina　represented　the　two　poles　of　his　life；　separate　and　irreconcilable；　yet　equally　appealing。
But　the　fact　that　he　carried　his　life…support　system　with　him　everywhere　like　a　part　of　his　body　meant　that　Tereza　went　on　having　her　dreams。
They　had　been　in　Zurich　for　six　or　seven　months　when　he　came　home　late　one　evening　to　find　a　letter　on　the　table　telling　him　she　had　left　for　Prague。　She　had　left　because　she　lacked　the　strength　to　live　abroad。　She　knew　she　was　supposed　to　bolster　him　up；　but　did　not　know　how　to　go　about　it。　She　had　been　silly　enough　to　think　that　going　abroad　would　change　her。　She　thought　that　after　what　she　had　been　through　during　the　invasion　she　would　stop　being　petty　and　grow　up；　grow　wise　and　strong；　but　she　had　overestimated　herself。　She　was　weighing　him　down　and　would　do　so　no　longer。　She　had　drawn　the　necessary　conclusions　before　it　was　too　late。　And　she　apologized　for　taking　Karenin　with　her。
He　took　some　sleeping　pills　but　still　did　not　close　his　eyes　until　morning。　Luckily　it　was　Saturday　and　he　could　stay　at　home。　For　the　hundred　and　fiftieth　time　he　went　over　the　situation：　the　borders　between　his　country　and　the　rest　of　the　world　were　no　longer　open。　No　telegrams　or　telephone　calls　could　bring　her　back。　The　authorities　would　never　let　her　travel　abroad。　Her　departure　was　staggeringly　definitive。
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The　realization　that　he　was　utterly　powerless　was　like　the　blow　of　a　sledgehammer；　yet　it　was　curiously　calming　as　well。　No　one　was　forcing　him　into　a　decision。　He　felt　no　need　to　stare　at　the　walls　of　the　houses　across　the　courtyard　and　ponder　whether　to　live　with　her　or　not。　Tereza　had　made　the　decision　herself。
He　went　to　a　restaurant　for　lunch。　He　was　depressed；　but　as　he　ate；　his　original　desperation　waned；　lost　its　strength；　and　soon　all　that　was　left　was　melancholy。　Looking　back　on　the　years　he　had　spent　with　her；　he　came　to　feel　that　their　story　could　have　had　no　better　ending。　If　someone　had　invented　the　story；　this　is　how　he　would　have　had　to　end　it。
One　day　Tereza　came　to　him　uninvited。　One　day　she　left　the　same　way。　She　came　with　a　heavy　suitcase。　She　left　with　a　heavy　suitcase。
He　paid　the　bill；　left　the　restaurant；　and　started　walking　through　the　streets；　his　melancholy　growing　more　and　more　beautiful。　He　had　spent　seven　years　of　life　with　Tereza；　and　now　he　realized　that　those　years　were　more　attractive　in　retrospect　than　they　were　when　he　was　living　them。
His　love　for　Tereza　was　beautiful；　but　it　was　also　tiring：　he　had　constantly　had　to　hide　things　from　her；　sham；　dissemble；　make　amends；　buck　her　up；　calm　her　down；　give　her　evidence　of　his　feelings；　play　the　defendant　to　her　jealousy；　her　suffering；　and　her　dreams；　feel　guilty；　make　excuses　and　apologies。　Now　what　was　tiring　had　disappeared　and　only　the　beauty　remained。
Saturday　found　him　for　the　first　time　strolling　alone　through　Zurich；　breathing　in　the　heady　smell　of　his　freedom。　New　adventures　hid　around　each　corner。　The　future　was　again　a　secret。　He　was　on　his　way　back　to　the　bachelor　life；　the　life　he　had　once　felt　destined　for；　the　life　that　would　let　him　be　what　he　actually　was。
For　seven　years　he　had　lived　bound　to　her；　his　every　step　subject　to　her　scrutiny。　She　might　as　well　have　chained　iron　balls　to　his　ankles。　Suddenly　his　step　was　much　lighter。　He　soared。　He　had　entered　Parmenides'　magic　field：　he　was　enjoying　the　sweet　lightness　of　being。
（Did　he　feel　like　phoning　Sabina　in　Geneva？　Contacting　one　or　another　of　the　women　he　had　met　during　his　several　months　in　Zurich？　No；　not　in　the　least。　Perhaps　he　sensed　that　any　woman　would　make　his　memory　of　Tereza　unbearably　painful。）
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This　curious　melancholic　fascination　lasted　until　Sunday　evening。　。On　Monday；　everything　changed。　Tereza　forced　her　way　into　his　thoughts：　he　imagined　her　sitting　there　writing　her　farewell　letter；　he　felt　her　hands　trembling；　he　saw　her　lugging　her　heavy　suitcase　in　one　hand　and　leading　Karenin　on　his　leash　with　the　other；　he　pictured　her　unlocking　their　Prague　flat；　and　suffered　the　utter　abandonment　breathing　her　in　the　face　as　she　opened　the　door。
During　those　two　beautiful　days　of　melancholy；　his　compassion　（that　curse　of　emotional　telepathy）　had　taken　a　holiday。　It　had　slept　the　sound　Sunday　sleep　of　a　miner　who；　after　a　hard　week's　work；　needs　to　gather　strength　for　his　Monday　shift。
Instead　of　the　patients　he　was　treating；　Tomas　saw　Tereza。
He　tried　to　remind　himself。　Don't　think　about　her！　Don't　think　about　her！　He　said　to　himself；　I'm　sick　with　compassion。　It's　good　that　she's　gone　and　that　I'll　never　see　her　again；　though　it's　not　Tereza　I　need　to　be　free　of—it's　that　sickness；　compassion；　which　I　thought　I　was　immune　to　until　she　infected　me　with　it。
On　Saturday　and　Sunday；　he　felt　the　sweet　lightness　of　being　rise　up　to　him　out　of　the　depths　of　the　future。　On　Monday；　he　was　hit　by　a　weight　the　likes　of　which　he　had　never　known。　The　tons　of　steel　of　the　Russian　tanks　were　nothing　compared　with　it。　For　there　is　nothing　heavier　than　compassion。　Not　even　one's　own　pain　weighs　so　heavy　as　the　pain　one　feels　with　someone；　for　someone；　a　pain　intensified　by　the　imagination　and　prolonged　by　a　hundred　echoes。
He　kept　warning　himself　not　to　give　in　to　compassion；　and　compassion　list