Night was falling and the snow was beginning to freeze. As I drove around a corner the car went into a dangerous skid. All it needed was a car coming in the other direction: a collision would have brought out the very people I wanted to avoid. It was better not to think about it. A pair of headlights glared in my rear-view mirror. Was it them? What should I do now that I was really carrying smuggled goods? I drove on, watching the mirror. I tried, without success, to determine how many people were in the car, and what kind of people they were. Not looking where I was driving*, I hit a large pothole in the middle of the road; the suspension complained and the basket of laundry slid forward and bumped into the back of my seat. I slowed down. I was in danger of becoming paranoid. I turned on to a main street that would take me to the river. There were several cars behind me now, as well as in front. It made no sense to try to keep track of them.
Last spring, outside the house where I live, two workmen were repairing a fence. They were a product of our era. They drank beer, stood by the fence and enjoyed the spring sun, delighted that they'd been sent to work in such a pretty and remote part of town. They managed to spread work that should have taken two days over the whole week. Occasionally they would ring my doorbell and offer to drink coffee with me, or something stronger. One day, when the
bell rang just before noon, I assumed it was them again and toyed with the idea of pretending I hadn't heard them.
Outside the door stood a short, pale man. Even before I spoke, I could see he was a foreigner. He wanted to be reassured that he wasn't putting me in any danger by coming in. Once inside the door, he asked me if I was always so closely watched. He'd been trying to visit me for three days.
He was a young priest and he'd smuggled in several books for me that were as innocent as he was. When he saw the two men lounging about, never actually working but never going far from my gate, he assumed they were secret policemen. He'd buried the books under some leaves in a nearby wood.
On the way to the wood I explained his mistake to him.
He laughed and, as if to apologize, remarked that when a man enters the kingdom of Satan, he expects to see devils at every turn.
Paranoia is something that diseased spirits succumb to, but if we live in a diseased world it requires ever greater efforts to banish sinister expectations.
I saw them from a distance. The yellow car was parked by the edge of the road, and one of the uniformed officers was signalling to me in the regulation manner with a luminous baton.
Of course. Why should they chase me when they could simply lie in wait? The road was like a mountain pass — the only route a smuggler can take, and where he is most frequently apprehended.
I stopped.
'Road check. Could I see your documents, please?'
I turned off the engine and got out of the car. The road
was covered in slush; the salt truck must already have gone by. The man in the uniform leafed through my I.D.
The advantage that Jiřík Vostrý—arrested two and a half centuries ago with three books — had over me is that I had three bags of books. My only advantage might have been that I was older and therefore more experienced. I knew that I should speak as little as possible, mention no names, never get into an argument or try to persuade them of anything, even if they looked as though they were listening with interest or sympathy. What a person says in good confidence is bound to be turned against him or, what is worse, against those close to him.
'Who were you with in Pardubice, and why did you go there?' they asked Jiřík Vostrý.
'I went there to do trade in textiles,' was the excuse he came up with.
I was coming from the laundry, but this would not explain anything if I was caught with the evidence.
About a month ago, they sent a young woman to jail for a year for typing copies of several books like the ones now in my possession. Her books would not have quarter-filled one of my bags. She had two small children; usually the court took such factors into account and handed down a suspended sentence. On this occasion her crime had obviously been of such a serious and dangerous nature that it warranted more.
'You were with someone, and also brought some books with you,' they said to Jiřík Vostrý.
'I was with no one, nor did I bring any books with me. I was searched at the customs house.'
'Who brought you here to the jail?'
'Some four men.'
'What did you say to them on the way?'
'I said that in our country we do not bow to the cross, for that is idolatry.'
In his zeal he had said more than he should have and they — for it is part of their nature — reported everything. The smuggler of long ago had a difficult time; he had also entrusted his jailer with the secret letter.
'Is it true that from the magistrate's jail you sent a letter alerting someone to danger?'
'My message was that if they had books they ought to put them away.'
'And whom did you so advise?'
'Litochleb and Kladivo and also Kaliban, the miller from Sedliště.'
'Is this the message?' [Exhibitae eidem schedulae, quae in allegatis lit. A et B videntur]
'It is.'
'Through whose offices did you write and send this letter?'
'The jailer led me to believe he would deliver it.'
'You must have been here bearing books before; and you must also know of people who cleave to your faith.'
'I know nothing; nor of anyone.'
The worst crime of all was to circulate forbidden books. Three young men from the place where Jiřík Vostrý was apprehended 247 years ago were recently given a total of six and a half years in prison for the same activity.
'Aren't you employed anywhere?' asked the officer leafing through my I.D. He seemed surprised. He was rather heavily built. There was a small moustache under his nose.
'I'm free-lance.'
He looked at me suspiciously, as if this was the first time
he had heard the expression. Perhaps he simply did not like the word 'free'. Could I prove that? he asked.
I handed him a piece of paper confirming that I was covered by social insurance.
He pretended to examine the paper, then folded it and handed it back to me. He kept my other documents. 'Have you had anything to drink, sir?'
I hadn't. I had no intention of tempting fate any more than necessary.
He put on an expression that suggested he did not entirely believe me. Then he asked me to turn on the headlights.
They were working properly.
Could he see my first-aid kit?
I would have to open the back door. I saw with relief that the laundry basket almost completely covered the bags containing the books. But in my excitement I could not remember' where I kept my first-aid kit. I groped haphazardly under the seat, trying to shield the books with my body.
The uniformed men watched with interest. 'Do you know what they call the first-aid kit, sir?' the one who had not previously spoken asked. 'I'll tell you. They call it "handy". And do you know why?'
I was forced to listen to the etymology of the word 'handy'.
'Why aren't you carrying your laundry in the boot?' said the first officer, suddenly bringing the conversation to its point.
About five years ago, my theatrical agent from the United States came to see me. She was an older woman who had been born in Europe and had experienced all that
continent's cultural benefits, including a concentration camp. In other words she was well equipped to understand the course of events that had determined my life. I needed to send a letter to a friend in Switzerland. The content of the letter was harmless even with regard to our vigilant laws, but the notion that a third party might read it disturbed me. I asked my American friend if she would take the letter across the border for me. At the airport, however, she was subjected to a thorough search. When she was forced to take the letter from her pocket, she tore open the envelope and, before they were able to snatch the letter from her hand, she put it into her mouth and, before the customs officers' eyes, chewed and swallowed it.