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to merge with him。 That is why； looking him straight in the eye； she insisted she had not had an orgasm even though the rug was fairly dripping with it。 It's not sensual pleasure I'm after； she would say； it's happiness。 And pleasure without happiness is not pleasure。 In other words； she was pounding on the gate of his poetic memory。 But the gate was shut。 There was no room for her in his poetic memory。 There was room for her only on the rug。
His adventure with Tereza began at the exact point where his adventures with other women left off。 It took place on the other side of the imperative that pushed him into conquest after conquest。 He had no desire to uncover anything in Tereza。 She had come to him uncovered。 He had made love to her before he could grab for the imaginary scalpel he used to open the prostrate body of the world。 Before he could start wondering what she would be like when they made love； he loved her。
Their love story did not begin until afterward： she fell ill and he was unable to send her home as he had the others。 Kneeling by her as she lay sleeping in his bed； he realized that someone had sent her downstream in a bulrush basket。 I have said before that metaphors are dangerous。 Love begins with a metaphor。 Which is to say； love begins at the point when a woman enters her first word into our poetic memory。
13
Recently she had made another entry into his mind。 Returning home with the milk one morning as usual； she stood in the doorway with a crow wrapped in her red scarf and pressed against her breast。 It was the way gypsies held their babies。 He would never forget it： the crow's enormous plaintive beak up next to her face。
She had found it half…buried； the way Cossacks used to dig their prisoners into the ground。 It was children； she said； and her words did more than state a fact； they revealed an unexpected repugnance for people in general。 It reminded him of something she had said to him not long before： I'm beginning to be grateful to you for not wanting to have children。
And then she had complained to him about a man who had been bothering her at work。 He had grabbed at a cheap necklace of hers and suggested that the only way she could have afforded it was by doing some prostitution on the side。 She was very upset about it。 More than necessary； thought Tomas。 He suddenly felt dismayed at how little he had seen of her the last two years； he had so few opportunities to press her hands in his to stop them from trembling。
The next morning he had gone to work with Tereza on his mind。 The woman who gave the window washers their assignments told him that a private customer had insisted on him personally。 Tomas was not looking forward to it； he was afraid it was still another woman。 Fully occupied with Tereza； he was in no mood for adventure。
When the door opened； he gave a sigh of relief。 He saw a tall； slightly stooped man before him。 The man had a big chin and seemed vaguely familiar。
Come in； said the man with a smile； taking him inside。
There was also a young man standing there。 His face was bright red。 He was looking at Tomas and trying to smile。
I assume there's no need for me to introduce you two； said the man。
No； said Tomas； and without returning the smile he held out his hand to the young man。 It was his son。
Only then did the man with the big chin introduce himself。
I knew you looked familiar！ said Tomas。 Of course！ Now I place you。 It was the name that did it。
They sat down at what was like a small conference table。 Tomas realized that both men opposite him were his own involuntary creations。 He had been forced to produce the younger one by his first wife； and the features of the older one had taken shape when he was under interrogation by the police。
To clear his mind of these thoughts； he said； Well； which window do you want me to start with？
Both men burst out laughing。
Clearly windows had nothing to do with the case。 He had not been called in to do the windows； he had been lured into a trap。 He had never before talked to his son。 This was the first time he had shaken hands with him。 He knew him only by sight and had no desire to know him any other way。 As far as he was concerned； the less he knew about his son the better； and he hoped the feeling was mutual。
Nice poster； isn't it？ said the editor； pointing at a large framed drawing on the wall opposite Tomas。
Tomas now glanced around the room。 The walls were hung with interesting pictures； mostly photographs and posters。 The drawing the editor had singled out came from one of the last issues of his paper before the Russians closed it down in 1969。 It was an imitation of a famous recruitment poster from the Russian Civil War of 1918 showing a soldier； red star on his cap and extraordinarily stern look in his eyes； staring straight at you and aiming his index finger at you。 The original Russian caption read： Citizen； have you joined the Red Army？ It was replaced by a Czech text that read： Citizen； have you signed the Two Thousand Words？
That was an excellent joke！ The Two Thousand Words was the first glorious manifesto of the 1968 Prague Spring。 It called for the radical democratization of the Communist regime。 First it was signed by a number of intellectuals； and then other people came forward and asked to sign； and finally there were so many signatures that no one could quite count them up。 When the Red Army invaded their country and launched a series of political purges； one of the questions asked of each citizen was Have you signed the Two Thousand Words？ Anyone who admitted to having done so was summarily dismissed from his job。
A fine poster； said Tomas。 I remember it well。 Let's hope the Red Army man isn't listening in on us； said the editor with a smile。
Then he went on； without the smile： Seriously though； this isn't my flat。 It belongs to a friend。 We can't be absolutely certain the police can hear us； it's only a possibility。 If I'd invited you to my place； it would have been a certainty。
Then he switched back to a playful tone。 But the way I' look at it； we've got nothing to hide。 And think of what a boon it will be to Czech historians of the future。 The complete recorded lives of the Czech intelligentsia on file in the police archives！ Do you know what effort literary historians have put into reconstructing in detail the sex lives of； say； Voltaire or Balzac or Tolstoy？ No such problems with Czech writers。 It's all on tape。 Every last sigh。
And turning to the imaginary microphones in the wall； he said in a stentorian voice； Gentlemen； as always in such circumstances； I wish to take this opportunity to encourage you in your work and to thank you on my behalf and on behalf of all future historians。
After the three of them had had a good laugh； the editor told the story of how his paper had been banned； what the artist who designed the poster was doing； and what had become of other Czech painters； philosophers； and writers。 After the Russian invasion they had been relieved of their positions and become window washers； parking attendants； night watchmen； boilermen in public buildings； or at best—and usually with pull—taxi drivers。
Although what the editor said was interesting enough； Tomas was unable to con