The Prague Orgy (9 page)
Authors: Philip Roth
- Zuckerman. if you were such an idealist about literature as you want me to be. if you would make great sacrifices for literature as you expect me to make, we would have been married twenty minutes already.
- Is whatever Sisovsky did so awful that his dead father must suffer too?
- When the stories are published in New York without the father
’
s name, the father will suffer more, believe me.
- Suppose that doesn
’
t happen. Suppose I make that impossible.
- You
will outtrick Zdenek?
- I
’
ll contact
The New York Times.
Before seeing Zdenek, I
’
ll tell them the whole story of these stories. They
’
ll run an article about them. Suppose I do that as soon as I
’
m back.
- So
that
’
s
what you get out of it!
That
’
s
your idealism! The marvelous Zuckerman brings from behind the Iron Curtain two hundred unpublished Yiddish stories written by a victim of a Nazi bullet. You will be a hero to the Jews and to literature and to all of the Free World. On top of all your millions of dollars and millions of girls, you will win the American Prize for Idealism about Literature. And what will happen to me? I will go to prison for smuggling a manuscript to the West.
- They won
’
t know the stories came through you.
- But they know already that I have them. They know everything I have. They have a list of everything that
everybody
has. You get the idealism prize, he gets the royalties, she gets the jewelry, and
I
get se
ven years. For the sake of
literature.
Here she gels up from the bed. goes to the dresser, and removes from the top drawer a deep box for chocolates. I untie the ribbon on the box. Inside, hundreds of pages of unusually thick paper, rather like the heavy waxed paper that oily foodstuff
’
s used to be wrapped in at the grocery. The ink is black, the margins perfect. the Yiddish script is sharp and neat. None of the stories seems longer than five or six pages. I can
’
t read them.
- [Back in bed)
You don
’
t have to give me money. You don
’
t have to find me a queer to be my husband.
[Beginning to cry)
You don
’
t even have to fuck me, if
I
am such an unattractive woman. To be fucked is the only freedom left in this country. To fuck and to be fucked is all we have left that they cannot stop, but you do not have to fuck me, if I am such an unattractive woman compared to the American girls. He can even print the stories in his own name, your friend Sisovsky. The hell with it. The hell with everything. In spite of the charm with which he seduced you, with which he seduces
everybody,
he can be quite vicious—do you know.
’
There is great brutality in your Sisovsky. Did he tell you about all his doubts—his tragic doubts? What shit! Before Zdenek left Prague, we measured personal vanity here in millisisovskys. Zdenek will survive in America. He is human in the worst sense of the word. Zdenek will flourish, ihanks to his dead father. So will she. And in return, I want nothing. Only that when he asks you how much did
you have to give her, how much money and how many fucks, you will do me one favor: tell him you had to give
me nothing. Tell
her.
At the hotel, two plainclothes policemen come to the room and
confiscate the candy box full of Yiddish manuscript within fifteen
minutes of my return. They are accompanied by the hotel clerk
who
’
d earlier in the day handed me Hrobek
’
s note.
“
They wish
to examine your belongings, sir,
”
he tells me—
”
they say some
body has mislaid something which you may have picked up by
mistake.
”
“
My belongings are none of their business.
”
“
I
’
m
afraid you are wrong. That is precisely their business.
”
As the
police begin their search I ask him,
“
And you, what
’
s your
business?
”
“
I merely work at the reception desk. It is not only the intellectual who may be sent down to the mines if he does
not cooperate with the present regime, the hotel clerk can be
demoted as well. As one of our famous dissidents has said, a
man who speaks only the truth,
‘
There is always a lower rung
under the feet of every citizen on the ladder of the state.
’”
I
demand to be allowed to telephone the American Embassy, and
not so as to arrange a wedding. I am told instead to pack my bags.
I
will be driven to the airport and put on the next plane
out of Prague. I am no longer welcome as a visitor in Czecho
slovakia.
“
I want to speak to the American ambassador. They
cannot confiscate my belongings. There are no grounds on which
to expel me from this country.
”
“
Sir, though it may appear to
you that ardent supporters of this regime are few and far between,
there are also those, like these two gentlemen, who have no
trouble believing that what they do is right, correct, and nec
essary. Brutally necessary. I am afraid that any further delay is
going to cause them to be less lenient than you would like.
”
“
What the box contains is simply manuscript—stories written
by somebody who
’
s been dead now thirty years, fiction about a
world that no longer even exists, It is no possible threat to
anyone.
”
“
I am grateful, sir, in times like these, still to be able
to support my family. There is nothing a clerk in a Prague hotel
can do for any writer, living or dead.
”
When I demand for the
third time to speak to the Embassy, I am told that if I do not
immediately pack my bags and prepare to leave, I will be arrested
and taken to jail.
“
How do I know,
”
I ask,
“
that they won
’
t take
me to jail anyway?
”
“
I suppose,
”
the clerk replies,
“
that you
will have to trust them.
”
Either Olga had a change of heart and called the cops, or else
they called on her. Klenek
’
s is bugged, everyone says so. I just cannot believe that she and the hotel clerk work for the same boss, but maybe that
’
s because I
am
a shallow, sentimental, American idiot Jew.
At the desk the police wait while I charge my bills to the Diners Club and then I am accompanied by them to a black limousine. One policeman sits up front with the driver and the candy box, and the other in the back with me and a bulky, bespectacled, elderly man who introduces himself gruffly as Novak. Soft, fine white hair like the fluff of a dry dandelion. Otherwise a man made of meat. He is no charmer like the hotel clerk.
Out beyond the heavy city traffic I am unable to tell if we really are on the airport road. Can they be taking me to jail in a limo? I always seem to end up in these large black cars. The dashboard says this one is a Tatra 603.
“
Sie sprechen Deuisch, nicht wahr?
”
Novak asks me.
“
Etwas.
”
“
Kennen sie Fraulein Betty MacDonald?
”
We continue in Gennan.
“
I don
’
t,
”
I say.
“
You
don
’
t
?”
“
No.
”
“
You don
’
t know Miss Betty MacDonald?
”
I can
’
t stop thinking how badly this can still turn out—or, alternatively, that
I
could honorably have abandoned the mission once I saw the dangers were real. Because Sisovsky claimed to be my counterpart from the world that my own fortunate family had eluded didn
’
t mean I had to prove him right by rushing in to change places. I assume his fate and he assumes mine—wasn
’
t that sort of his idea from the start?
When I came to New York I said to Eva,
“
I am a relative of this great man.
”
Guilty of conspiring against the Czech people with somebody named Betty MacDonald. Thus i conclude my penance.
“
Sorry,
”
I say,
“
1 don
’
t know her.
”
“
But,
”
says Novak,
“
she is the author of
The Egg and I.
”
“
Ah. Yes. About a farm—wasn
’
t it? I haven
’
t read it since I was a schoolboy.
”
Novak is incredulous.
“
But it is a masterpiece.
”
“
Well, I can
’
t say it
’
s considered a masterpiece in America. I
’
d be surprised if in American anybody under thirty has even heard of
The Egg and I.
”
“
I
cannot believe this.
”
“
It
’
s true. It was popular in the forties, a bestseller, a movie, but books like that come and go. Surely you have the same thing here.
”
“
Trial is a tragedy. And what has happened to Miss Betty MacDonald?
”
“
I have no idea.
”
“
Why does something like this happen in America to a writer like Miss MacDonald?
”
“
I don
’
t think even Miss MacDonald expected her book to endure forever.
”
“
You have not answered me. You avoid the question. Why does this happen in America?
”
“
I don
’
t know.
”
I search in vain for signs to the airport.
Novak is suddenly angry.
“
There is no paranoia here about writers.
”
“
I didn
’
t say there was.
”
“
I am a writer. I am a successful writer. Nobody is paranoid about me. Ours is the most literate country in Europe. Our people love books. I have in the Writers
”
Union dozens of writers, poets, novelists, playwrights, and no one is paranoid about them. No, it isn
’
t writers who fall under our suspicion in Czechoslovakia. In this small country the writers have a great burden to bear: they must not only make the country
’
s literature, they must be the touchstone for general decency and public conscience. They occupy a high position in our national life because they are people who live beyond reproach. Our writers are loved by their readers. The country looks to them for moral leadership. No, it is those who stand outside of the common life, that is who we all fear. And we are right to.
”
I
can imagine what he contributes to his country
’
s literature:
Stilt more humorous Novakian tales about the crooked tittle streets of Old Prague, stories that poke fun at all citizens, high and low, and always with spicy folk humor and mischievous fantasy. A must for the sentimental at holiday time.