hostage, the art of narration flourishes by mouth. In Prague, stories aren ’ t simply stories; it ’ s what they have instead of life. Here they have become their stories, in lieu of being permitted to be anything else. Storytelling is the form their resistance has taken against the coercion of the powers-that-be.
I say nothing to Bolotka of the sentiments stirred up by my circuitous escape route, or the association it ’ s inspired between my ancestors ’ Poland, his Prague tenement, and the Jewish Atlantis of an American childhood dream. I only explain why I ’ m late. “ 1 was followed from the train station onto the trolley. I shook him before I got here. I hope I wasn ’ t wrong to come anyway. ” I describe the student Hrobek and show Bolotka his note. “ The note was given to me by a hotel clerk who I think is a cop. ”
After reading it twice he says, “ Don ’ t worry, they were only frightening him and his teacher. ”
“ If so, they succeeded. In frightening me too. ”
“ Whatever the reason, it is not to build a case against you. They do this to everyone. It is one of the laws of power, the spreading of general distrust. It is one of several basic techniques of adjusting people. But they cannot touch you. That would be pointless, even by Prague standards. A regime can only be so stupid, and then the other side comes back into power. Here you frighten them. A student should understand that. He is not enrolled in the right courses. ”
“ Coming to the hotel then, he made things worse for himself—for his teacher too, if all this is true. ”
“ I can ’ t say. There is probably more about this boy that we don ’ t know. The student and his teacher are who they are interested in, not you. You are not responsible for the boy ’ s bad judgment. ”
“ He was young. He wanted to help. ”
“ Don ’ t be tender about his martyr complex. And don ’ t credit the secret police with so much. Of course the hotel clerk is a cop. Everybody is in that hotel. But the police are like literary critics—of what little they see, they get most wrong anyway. They are the literary critics. Our literary criticism is police criticism. As for the boy, he is right now back in his room with his pants off. boasting to his girt friend about saving your life. ”
Bolotka is padded out beneath his overalls with a scruffy, repulsive reddish fur vest that could be the hair off his own thick hide, and consequently looks even more barbarous, more feral, at work than he did at play. He looks, in this enclosure, like one of the zoo ’ s larger beasts, a bison or a bear. We are in a freezing storage room about twice as big as an ordinary clothes closet and a third the size of his living quarters. Both of us are sipping slivovitz-larded tea from his mug, I to calm down and Bolotka to warm up. The cartons stacked to the ceiling contain his cleanser, his toilet tissue, his floor polish, his lye; ranged along the walls are the janitor ’ s buffing machine, ladder, and collection of brooms. In one corner, the corner Bolotka calls “ my office, ” are a low stool, a gooseneck lamp, and the electric kettle to boil the water into which to dip his tea bag and pour the brandy. He reads here, writes, hides, sleeps, here on a scrap of carpet between the push broom and the buffer he entertains sixteen girls, though never, he informs me, in so tiny a space, all of them at one time. “ More than two girls and there ’ s no room for my prick. ”
“ And there ’ s nothing to be done about this boy ’ s warning? I ’ m relying on you, Rudolf. When you come to New York I ’ ll see you ’ re not mugged in Central Park by going to take a leak there at 3 a.m. I expect the same consideration from you here. Am I in danger? ”
“ I was once briefly in jail, waiting to stand trial, Nathan. Before the trial began, they released me. It was too ridiculous even for them. They told me I had committed a crime against the state: in
I say nothing to Bolotka of the sentiments stirred up by my circuitous escape route, or the association it ’ s inspired between my ancestors ’ Poland, his Prague tenement, and the Jewish Atlantis of an American childhood dream. I only explain why I ’ m late. “ 1 was followed from the train station onto the trolley. I shook him before I got here. I hope I wasn ’ t wrong to come anyway. ” I describe the student Hrobek and show Bolotka his note. “ The note was given to me by a hotel clerk who I think is a cop. ”
After reading it twice he says, “ Don ’ t worry, they were only frightening him and his teacher. ”
“ If so, they succeeded. In frightening me too. ”
“ Whatever the reason, it is not to build a case against you. They do this to everyone. It is one of the laws of power, the spreading of general distrust. It is one of several basic techniques of adjusting people. But they cannot touch you. That would be pointless, even by Prague standards. A regime can only be so stupid, and then the other side comes back into power. Here you frighten them. A student should understand that. He is not enrolled in the right courses. ”
“ Coming to the hotel then, he made things worse for himself—for his teacher too, if all this is true. ”
“ I can ’ t say. There is probably more about this boy that we don ’ t know. The student and his teacher are who they are interested in, not you. You are not responsible for the boy ’ s bad judgment. ”
“ He was young. He wanted to help. ”
“ Don ’ t be tender about his martyr complex. And don ’ t credit the secret police with so much. Of course the hotel clerk is a cop. Everybody is in that hotel. But the police are like literary critics—of what little they see, they get most wrong anyway. They are the literary critics. Our literary criticism is police criticism. As for the boy, he is right now back in his room with his pants off. boasting to his girt friend about saving your life. ”
Bolotka is padded out beneath his overalls with a scruffy, repulsive reddish fur vest that could be the hair off his own thick hide, and consequently looks even more barbarous, more feral, at work than he did at play. He looks, in this enclosure, like one of the zoo ’ s larger beasts, a bison or a bear. We are in a freezing storage room about twice as big as an ordinary clothes closet and a third the size of his living quarters. Both of us are sipping slivovitz-larded tea from his mug, I to calm down and Bolotka to warm up. The cartons stacked to the ceiling contain his cleanser, his toilet tissue, his floor polish, his lye; ranged along the walls are the janitor ’ s buffing machine, ladder, and collection of brooms. In one corner, the corner Bolotka calls “ my office, ” are a low stool, a gooseneck lamp, and the electric kettle to boil the water into which to dip his tea bag and pour the brandy. He reads here, writes, hides, sleeps, here on a scrap of carpet between the push broom and the buffer he entertains sixteen girls, though never, he informs me, in so tiny a space, all of them at one time. “ More than two girls and there ’ s no room for my prick. ”
“ And there ’ s nothing to be done about this boy ’ s warning? I ’ m relying on you, Rudolf. When you come to New York I ’ ll see you ’ re not mugged in Central Park by going to take a leak there at 3 a.m. I expect the same consideration from you here. Am I in danger? ”
“ I was once briefly in jail, waiting to stand trial, Nathan. Before the trial began, they released me. It was too ridiculous even for them. They told me I had committed a crime against the state: in
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