The valet returns to his chair and looks politely at the screen. 'Our society has never been closer to the great goals it has set for itself. . ' the announcer claims.
The valet shifts slightly in his chair, and the president is suddenly worried that he might notice his lack of interest. He searches his face but sees nothing in it. 'Right,' he says. 'Right. And that's how it always is, today and tomorrow, for ever and ever. You can turn it off.' And when the valet turns towards the television set, the president takes another quick look at the bookshelves. One of the volumes moves almost imperceptibly, but he manages to glimpse the peephole in the spine of the book just as it snaps shut. The bier is still in the same place, but another one has now appeared beside it. Who is it for? For him, of course.
The valet walks back from the blank screen and sits down. His face expresses absolutely nothing.
And how did you make a living before you came here, lad?' the president asks.
'I was a waiter,' he announces, almost proudly. 'I served food and drink.'
'I don't suppose you'd want to do that any more, would you?' he asked.
'I'm happy with what I'm doing, Comrade President.'
'You have a wife?' he asks him,
'I have a wife.'
'In good health?'
'In good health, fortunately, yes, in good health.'
'Not even a toothache?'
'Sometimes. She has trouble with her teeth.'
And she has no other worries?'
'Only occasionally, Comrade President.'
'She shouldn't,' he says. 'Your wife shouldn't have any worries. Could we help her somehow, or do something to cheer her up?'
'I wouldn't dare take up your time with such petty matters, Comrade President.'
'Go on, speak!' he orders him.
'As a matter of fact, it would please my wife if you could look into a particular request for clemency.'
'Oh, my,' he says. 'Your wife is asking for clemency?
'No, I didn't mean that, Comrade President. My wife has in mind the one who hijacked the bus. The one they sentenced to death.' The valet's face remains expressionless as
he conveys this astonishing request.
'But surely he wasn't her, or your. .?'
'No, no, certainly not.'
'Interesting, interesting,' he says. 'And why is your wife concerned about him?'
'Oh, you know women, Comrade President. She heard something, or maybe she even saw something, and took an interest. Besides'—the valet hesitates—'it's possible there may even be some distant relative involved here. You know women, they always have favours to call in.'
'Tell your wife not to worry about this,' he says. 'We shall take a look at the request.'
'Should I note it down for you?'
'Note it down,' he orders.
The valet stands up and walks over to the table. Now is a good time. The valet will write the note with his back turned, and he can slip out of the room unobserved and then escape into the garden. In the garden, in the farthest corner, he has a tree picked out, a plane tree, and all he has to do is shin up it. Its branches reach over the wall. Then he will jump — and be free.
Those boneheads thought someone might try to force their way in here from outside, so they cut down all the trees on the other side of the wall. It never occurred to them that someone, perhaps even he himself, might want to escape.
His breath quickens with excitement. He stealthily rises out of his chair, then, hovering above the floor, cautiously, very cautiously, he pushes off from the soft carpet and floats alongside the bookshelves. Then he sees him. Stuck into the shelves right beside the door, surrounded by thick volumes so that only his head and some parts of his incredibly twisted, misshapen body are visible, is his executioner. He recognizes him at once, those lashless, suppurating eyelids, that mouth full of yellowish-brown teeth.
So they sneaked him in after all. Their audacity knows no limits, even though they couldn't have been entirely sure of themselves, which is why they have packed him in so tightly, almost walling him in with books. Now the monster, surprised that he's been found out, attempts something meant to look like a smile.
What if he yells for his valet now? What if he goes to the telephone and calls a cabinet meeting immediately and declares a state of emergency? Then he'd be able to put this creature, and all the other ones as well, where they belong — in front of a firing-squad. But he won't do that. He has made a decision to rule without force.
'Comrade President,' says the valet's voice behind him, 'isn't it time to go beddybyes?'
He lands abruptly on the floor.
The valet helps him back into his chair. They sit facing each other again. On the other side of the bulletproof windows, deep night is pulsating.
He ought to stop drinking. His doctor recommended a strict limit of no more than two drinks a day. But who is this doctor, really? And who is this lad sitting across from him? He should ask him what his name is, what he did before he came here, if he has a wife and children.
But no matter what the fellow replies, it will all be a pack of lies.
CHAPTER TWO
1
The demonstration, which was really more like a public meeting, had been given a permit. It was the first legal assembly of the opposition in twenty years. Most of the faces he saw through his viewfinder were familiar. They were the faces of those who had been branded as public enemies. That they were now standing on a podium addressing the crowd that had dared to gather was both a milestone and an unsettling omen. The authorities had allowed them to use a small square on the edge of the city. In a month or two, they would let them use a square in the centre, and if the demonstrators didn't get permission they would come anyway, so many of them that they would be unstoppable. You can rule with a firm hand, or you can rule through consensus. Those with neither the strength for firmness nor the courage for consensus take refuge in the belief that they can remain somewhere in between. But that is an illusion.
It was a freezing day. Clouds of breath were coming from the speakers' mouths, but they didn't appear to notice the cold. Even those who formed a circle around the podium had apparently so submerged themselves in the warmth of the words they heard that they were able to remove their gloves and bare their heads. Onlookers in the tenement houses around the square opened their windows to hear better.
There were many speakers, but Pavel was here today by himself. Sokol was off sick, and besides, his bosses felt it would be politically inappropriate to express too great an interest in this assembly.
Supposing he were to ask for an interview with one of the speakers? Would he be turned down, or would the speaker welcome the chance to talk to him? Probably the latter. These people had been denied free expression for too long.
What do you think about the state of human rights in this country? Does being allowed to hold this assembly represent a change for the better? Do you expect to be holding assemblies like this more often? What are your immediate aims?
But they would only be speaking to him. The tape would first be monitored by his bosses, who had expressly forbidden the conducting of such interviews. Would they fire him for insubordination? Probably. He shouldn't kid himself: just because they'd given in to these people didn't mean they'd give in to him as well. The people on the podium enjoyed an international protection of sorts: their names were known to foreign heads of state. His name was known only to the head of this state, that is, if he had taken note of it in the first place and managed to remember it. By conducting such an interview, he would be helping neither himself nor anyone else. So why bother?