按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
Because she was a painter； she had an eye for detail and a memory for the physical characteristics of the people in Prague who had a passion for assessing others。 All of them had index fingers slightly longer than their middle fingers and pointed them at whomever they happened to be talking to。 In fact； President Novotny； who had ruled the country for the fourteen years preceding 1968； sported the very same barber…induced gray waves and had the longest index finger of all the inhabitants of Central Europe。
When the distinguished emigre heard from the lips of a painter whose pictures he had never seen that he resembled Communist President Novotny； he turned scarlet； then white； then scarlet again； then white once more； he tried to say something； did not succeed； and fell silent。 Everyone else kept silent until Sabina stood up and left。
It made her unhappy； and down in the street she asked herself why she should bother to maintain contact with Czechs。 What bound her to them？ The landscape？ If each of them were asked to say what the name of his native country evoked in him； the images that came to mind would be so different as to rule out all possibility of unity。
Or the culture？ But what was that？ Music？ Dvorak and Janacek？ Yes。 But what if a Czech had no feeling for music？ Then the essence of being Czech vanished into thin air。
Or great men？ Jan Hus？ None of the people in that room had ever read a line of his works。 The only thing they were all able to understand was the flames； the glory of the flames when he was burned at the stake； the glory of the ashes； so for them the essence of being Czech came down to ashes and nothing more。 The only things that held them together were their defeats and the reproaches they addressed to one another。
She was walking fast。 She was more disturbed by her own thoughts than by her break with the emigres。 She knew she was being unfair。 There were other Czechs； after all； people quite different from the man with the long index finger。 The embarrassed silence that followed her little speech did not by any means indicate they were all against her。 No； they were probably bewildered by the sudden hatred； the lack of understanding they were all subjected to in emigration。 Then why wasn't she sorry for them？ Why didn't she see them for the woeful and abandoned creatures they were？
We know why。 After she betrayed her father； life opened up before her； a long road of betrayals； each one attracting her as vice and victory。 She would not keep ranks！ She refused to keep ranks—always with the same people； with the same speeches！ That was why she was so stirred by her own injustice。 But it was not an unpleasant feeling； quite the contrary； Sabina had the impression she had just scored a victory and someone invisible was applauding her for it。
Then suddenly the intoxication gave way to anguish： The road had to end somewhere！ Sooner or later she would have to put an end to her betrayals！ Sooner or later she would have to stop herself！
It was evening and she was hurrying through the railway station。 The train to Amsterdam was in。 She found her coach。 Guided by a friendly guard； she opened the door to her compartment and found Franz sitting on a couchette。 He rose to greet her； she threw her arms around him and smothered him with kisses。
She had an overwhelming desire to tell him； like the most banal of women； Don't let me go； hold me tight； make me your plaything； your slave； be strong！ But they were words she could not say。
The only thing she said when he released her from his embrace was； You don't know how happy I am to be with you。 That was the most her reserved nature allowed her to express。
5
A Short Dictionary of Misunderstood Words （continued｝
PARADES
People in Italy or France have it easy。 When their parents force them to go to church； they get back at them by joining the Party （Communist； Maoist； Trotskyist； etc。）。 Sabina； however； was first sent to church by her father； then forced by him to attend meetings of the Communist Youth League。 He was afraid of what would happen if she stayed away。
When she marched in the obligatory May Day parades； she could never keep in step； and the girl behind her would shout at her and purposely tread on her heels。 When the time came to sing； she never knew the words of the songs and would merely open and close her mouth。 But the other girls would notice and report her。 From her youth on； she hated parades。
Franz had studied in Paris； and because he was extraordinarily gifted his scholarly career was assured from the time he was twenty。 At twenty； he knew he would live out his life within the confines of his university office； one or two libraries； and two or three lecture halls。 The idea of such a life made him feel suffocated。 He yearned to step out of his life the way one steps out of a house into the street。
And so as long as he lived in Paris； he took part in every possible demonstration。 How nice it was to celebrate something； demand something； protest against something； to be out in the open； to be with others。 The parades filing down the Boulevard Saint…Germain or from the Place de la Republique to the Bastille fascinated him。 He saw the marching； shouting crowd as the image of Europe and its history。 Europe was the Grand March。 The march from revolution to revolution； from struggle to struggle； ever onward。
I might put it another way： Franz felt his book life to be unreal。 He yearned for real life； for the touch of people walking side by side with him； for their shouts。 It never occurred to him that what he considered unreal （the work he did in the solitude of the office or library） was in fact his real life； whereas the parades he imagined to be reality were nothing but theater； dance； carnival—in other words； a dream。
During her studies； Sabina lived in a dormitory。 On May Day all the students had to report early in the morning for the parade。 Student officials would comb the building to ensure that no one was missing。 Sabina hid in the lavatory。 Not until long after the building was empty would she go back to her room。 It was quieter than anywhere she could remember。 The only sound was the parade music echoing in the distance。 It was as though she had found refuge inside a shell and the only sound she could hear was the sea of an inimical world。
A year or two after emigrating； she happened to be in Paris on the anniversary of the Russian invasion of her country。 A protest march had been scheduled； and she felt driven to take part。 Fists raised high； the young Frenchmen shouted out slogans condemning Soviet imperialism。 She liked the slogans； but to her surprise she found herself unable to shout along with them。 She lasted no more than a few minutes in the parade。
When she told her French friends about it； they were amazed。 You mean you don't want to fight the occupation of your country？ She would have liked to tell them that behind Communism； Fascism； behind all occupations and invasions lurks a more basic； pervasive evil and that the image of that evil was a parade of people marching by with raised fists and shouting identical syllables in unison。 But she knew she would never be able to make them understand。 Embarrassed； she changed t