生命不能承受之轻-第39章

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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　concentrate　on　it。　He　was　thinking　about　his　son。　He　remembered　passing　him　in　the　street　during　the　past　two　months。　Apparently　these　encounters　had　not　been　fortuitous。　He　had　certainly　never　expected　to　find　him　in　the　company　of　a　persecuted　editor。　Tomas's　first　wife　was　an　orthodox　Communist；　and　Tomas　automatically　assumed　that　his　son　was　under　her　influence。　He　knew　nothing　about　him。　Of　course　he　could　have　come　out　and　asked　him　what　kind　of　relationship　he　had　with　his　mother；　but　he　felt　that　it　would　have　been　tactless　in　the　presence　of　a　third　party。
At　last　the　editor　came　to　the　point。　He　said　that　more　and　more　people　were　going　to　prison　for　no　offense　other　than　upholding　their　own　opinions；　and　concluded　with　the　words　And　so　we've　decided　to　do　something。　
What　is　it　you　want　to　do？　asked　Tomas。
Here　his　son　took　over。　It　was　the　first　time　he　had　ever　heard　him　speak。　He　was　surprised　to　note　that　he　stuttered。
According　to　our　sources；　he　said；　political　prisoners　are　being　subjected　to　very　rough　treatment。　Several　are　in　a　bad　way。　And　so　we've　decided　to　draft　a　petition　and　have　it　signed　by　the　most　important　Czech　intellectuals；　the　ones　who　still　mean　something。　
No；　it　wasn't　actually　a　stutter；　it　was　more　of　a　stammer；　slowing　down　the　flow　of　speech；　stressing　or　highlighting　every　word　he　uttered　whether　he　wanted　to　or　not。　He　obviously　felt　himself　doing　it；　and　his　cheeks；　which　had　barely　regained　their　natural　pallor；　turned　scarlet　again。
And　you've　called　me　in　for　advice　on　likely　candidates　in　my　field？　Tomas　asked。
No；　the　editor　said；　laughing。　We　don't　want　your　advice。　We　want　your　signature！　
And　again　he　felt　flattered！　Again　he　enjoyed　the　feeling　that　he　had　not　been　forgotten　as　a　surgeon！　He　protested；　but　only　out　of　modesty；　Wait　a　minute。　Just　because　they　kicked　me　out　doesn't　mean　I'm　a　famous　doctor！　
We　haven't　forgotten　what　you　wrote　for　our　paper；　said　the　editor；　smiling　at　Tomas。
Yes；　sighed　Tomas's　son　with　an　alacrity　Tomas　may　have　missed。
I　don't　see　how　my　name　on　a　petition　can　help　your　political　prisoners。　Wouldn't　it　be　better　to　have　it　signed　by　people　who　haven't　fallen　afoul　of　the　regime；　people　who　have　at　least　some　influence　on　the　powers　that　be？　
The　editor　smiled。　Of　course　it　would。　
Tomas's　son　smiled；　too；　he　smiled　the　smile　of　one　who　understands　many　things。　The　only　trouble　is；　they'd　never　sign！　
Which　doesn't　mean　we　don't　go　after　them；　the　editor　continued；　or　that　we're　too　nice　to　spare　them　the　embarrassment。　He　laughed。　You　should　hear　the　excuses　they　give。　They're　fantastic！　
Tomas's　son　laughed　in　agreement。
Of　course　they　all　begin　by　claiming　they　agree　with　us　right　down　the　line；　the　editor　went　on。　We　just　need　a　different　approach；　they　say。　Something　more　prudent；　more　reasonable；　more　discreet。　They're　scared　to　sign　and　worried　that　if　they　don't　they'll　sink　in　our　estimation。　
Again　Tomas's　son　and　the　editor　laughed　together。
Then　the　editor　gave　Tomas　a　sheet　of　paper　with　a　short　text　calling　upon　the　president　of　the　republic；　in　a　relatively　respectful　manner；　to　grant　amnesty　to　all　political　prisoners。
Tomas　ran　the　idea　quickly　through　his　mind。　Amnesty　to　political　prisoners？　Would　amnesty　be　granted　because　people　jettisoned　by　the　regime　（and　therefore　themselves　potential　political　prisoners）　request　it　of　the　president？　The　only　thing　such　a　petition　would　accomplish　was　to　keep　political　prisoners　from　being　amnestied　if　there　happened　to　be　a　plan　afoot　to　do　so！
His　son　interrupted　his　thoughts。　The　main　thing　is　to　make　the　point　that　there　still　are　a　handful　of　people　in　this　country　who　are　not　afraid。　And　to　show　who　stands　where。　Separate　the　wheat　from　the　chaff。　
True；　true；　thought　Tomas；　but　what　had　that　to　do　with　political　prisoners？　Either　you　called　for　an　amnesty　or　you　separated　the　wheat　from　the　chaff。　The　two　were　not　identical。
On　the　fence？　the　editor　asked。
Yes。　He　was　on　the　fence。　But　he　was　afrai