Could I eat three bags of books?
My only consolation was the knowledge that the worst cloud had already passed over our country: they wouldn't put out my eyes.
I finally found the first-aid kit and handed it to the officer with the moustache. 'My spare tyre is in the boot.' I said, by way of explanation.
'Could you show us?'
The first-aid kit under a pile of rags; bags on the floor; a basket full of laundry on the seat; the spare tyre in the boot. Sir, there's something about you we don't like. Put the spare where it belongs. Put the first-aid kit in the glove-compartment. And take those bags and put them in the boot. Here, we'll help you. My goodness, sir, these bags weigh a ton. What on earth do you have in them?
Both officers leaned into the boot and tested the depth of the tread on my spare tyre. 'I'm not surprised you keep this hidden, sir. When was the last time you put any air in it?'
A few days ago.' I could not understand why they were
putting off the moment when they would display interest in what they were really after.
'A few days ago. Would you mind checking the pressure for us?'
I had a gauge in a compartment next to the steering-wheel. Regardless of the pressure it always gave a reading of two atmospheres.
'You're in luck,' one of them said, looking sceptically at the needle, which was pointing reliably to the two.
'You may close the boot,' said the other one.
'Get back in to the car,' said the first.
Suddenly I understood the mystery of this pointless and rather protracted game. Their orders were to stop me and detain me. The officers who were really interested in me and my contraband had, for some reason, been held up. When they arrived and saw my bags, they would be delighted: Surely you don't mean to tell me someone put these bags m your car without your knowledge, sir?
Indeed, such a claim would not sound credible. Where, then, had I got the bags from? It's odd that although we've had 247 years to work on it, we have not yet come up with even a slightly probable reply to a highly probable question.
What alibi could I come up with on the spur of the moment? I had brought them from home, where a stranger had left them. But why would I have them in my car now? In a rush, I weighed various unconvincing explanations in my mind. I just put them there and then forgot about them? I wanted to store them at a relative's flat, then changed my mind? I was on my way to hand them in to the authorities?
He opens one of them. I realize I've made another irretrievable mistake. I'd spent the whole afternoon with Angela and without so much as glancing into the three
bags. Unlike Jiřík Vostrý, I didn't know what books I had on my hands. I might have had magazines in the bags; they tend to get very upset about magazines.
So you're bringing them from home. Well, what about this one? And with great distaste, he spells out the name of the author and the title. Is this your book?
It's my book.
Who did you get it from?
I was given it. That's not against the law.
And did you read it?
I have a lot of books I haven't managed to read yet.
You might at least have unwrapped it, he says, looking at me disapprovingly. You've left it all wrapped up like a piece of cheese. Not only that, you've got two copies of it. He rummages around in the bag some more and corrects himself: Three! Where were you taking these bags?
For years now I've had a running debate with those who liken books to explosives or drugs. During that time, I've prepared a lengthy speech in which I defend freedom of creation, which is part of a dignified and truthful life. But I have never had the occasion to deliver the speech. The temptation to do it now is powerful. But I mustn't succumb. To entrust my own convictions to these men in uniform would be just as silly now as it was two and a half centuries ago.
The two of them were talking something over; perhaps they were radioing in a query. It seemed undignified to watch.
When the others, whom they are clearly waiting for, come, I should at least pose them a question: Why, by what authority, do you of all people, who are so convinced that the life of man is limited to this insignificant little patch
of time when he dwells upon the earth, transform our lives into a suffocating mixture of lies, filth and repression?
No one else comes, but the two uniformed officers return to my car.
'Sir, are you aware of which traffic regulation you've broken?' They wait for a moment, and then the one with the moustache tries to help out: 'When you stopped, did you turn out your lights?'
'Was I driving without my headlights on?' It was not my negligence that astonished me, but the fact that they had spent so long in coming up with something so trivial.
'That's right, sir. And in this weather. Do you know that this could have cost you your license?' The two of them watched me, and when I didn't protest, the one with the moustache asked: 'Are you willing to pay us a hundred crown fine on the spot?'
I took out a big, green banknote and then, with dismay, I realized that I was handing it over far too willingly.
They gave me the requisite ticket from their booklet, and wished me a good trip. From their expressions I could tell that this had made them feel good; they'd done some useful work.
My wife was waiting impatiently, afraid that something bad had happened. We carried the bags into the room, and I unwrapped the books, which smelled of newness. The titles promised the intellectual consolation of pure, original language.
I opened one of the volumes, but I was unable to concentrate on the contents.
Nicholas had indeed bought two, or even three copies of some of the books. That meant that the next day, I would be a messenger and go to Morašice, to Lubný, and then to
see Kaliban in Kamenné Sedliště.
What was Jiřík Vostry's fate? They let him go, of course. The eighteenth century wasn't the middle ages, after all. The archives have preserved a later report of him. The incorrigible smuggler — now thirty years older — was apprehended again. From the interrogation it is clear that in the intervening years Vostrý had not been idle. At one time he had been imprisoned at lytomyšl where he 'remained for three years less eight weeks.' (We will never know how often, during the rest of those years, he had successfully evaded capture.) He was released for good behaviour, and he rushed home to his wife and children.
No record has been preserved of how he fared in his last trial, but everything suggests that this time he didn't get off so easily. The Edict of Toleration, which made book smuggling pointless for the next two hundred years, was soon to be law. If only Vostrý had been twenty years younger.
But such is the deceitful game of history. People sacrifice their time, put their freedom and even their lives at risk just to cross, or eliminate, borders they know are absurd. And then — often soon afterwards — in a single instant, as a consequence of a single decree, the border disappears without a trace.
In revealing their transience, these borders also seem to expose the futility of all the former sacrifices. But perhaps it is really the other way around: if it weren't for those who, in their battle against borders, risked everything, the borders would not disappear, but would become a net and all of us trapped insects inside.