生命不能承受之轻-第13章

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salt　sea　air；　they　deal　with　one　thing　only：　the　citizen's　political　profile　（in　other　words；　what　the　citizen　says；　what　he　thinks；　how　he　behaves；　how　he　acquits　himself　at　meetings　or　May　Day　parades）。　Because　everything　（day…to…day　existence；　promotion　at　work；　vacations）　depends　on　the　outcome　of　the　assessment　process；　everyone　（whether　he　wants　to　play　soccer　for　the　national　team；　have　an　exhibition；　or　spend　his　holidays　at　the　seaside）　must　behave　in　such　a　way　as　to　deserve　a　favorable　assessment。
That　was　what　ran　through　Sabina's　mind　as　she　listened　to　the　gray…haired　man　speak。　He　didn't　care　whether　his　fellow…countrymen　were　good　kickers　or　painters　（none　of　the　Czechs　at　the　emigre　gathering　ever　showed　any　interest　in　what　Sabina　painted）；　he　cared　whether　they　had　opposed　Communism　actively　or　just　passively；　really　and　truly　or　just　for　appearances'　sake；　from　the　very　beginning　or　just　since　emigration。
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　the　subject。
THE　BEAUTY　OF　NEW　YORK
Franz　and　Sabina　would　walk　the　streets　of　New　York　for　hours　at　a　time。　The　view　changed　with　each　step；　as　if　they　were　following　a　winding　mountain　path　surrounded　by　breathtaking　scenery：　a　young　man　kneeling　in　the　middle　of　the　sidewalk　praying；
a　few　steps　away；　a　beautiful　black　woman　leaning　against　a　tree；　a　man　in　a　black　suit　directing　an　invisible　orchestra　while　crossing　the　street；　a　fountain　spurting　water　and　a　group　of　construction　workers　sitting　on　the　rim　eating　lunch；　strange　iron　ladders　running　up　and　down　buildings　with　ugly　red　facades；　so　ugly　that　they　were　beautiful；　and　next　door；　a　huge　glass　skyscraper　backed　by　another；　itself　topped　by　a　small　Arabian　pleasure…dome　with　turrets；　galleries；　and　gilded　columns。
She　was　reminded　of　her　paintings。　There；　too；　incongruous　things　came　together：　a　steelworks　construction　site　superimposed　on　a　kerosene　lamp；　an　old…fashioned　lamp　with　a　painted…glass　shade　shattered　into　tiny　splinters　and　rising　up　over　a　desolate　landscape　of　marshland。
Franz　said；　Beauty　in　the　European　sense　has　always　had　a　premeditated　quality　to　it。　We've　always　had　an　aesthetic　intention　and　a　long…range　plan。　That's　what　enabled　Western　man　to　spend　decades　building　a　Gothic　cathedral　or　a　Renaissance　piazza。　The　beauty　of　New　York　rests　on　a　completely　different　base。　It's　unintentional。　It　arose　independent　of　human　design；　like　a　stalagmitic　cavern。　Forms　which　are　in　themselves　quite　ugly　turn　up　fortuitously；　without　design；　in　such　incredible　surroundings　that　they　sparkle　with　a　sudden　wondrous　poetry。　
Sabina　said；　Unintentional　beauty。　Yes。　Another　way　of　putting　it　might　be　'beauty　by　mistake。'　Before　beauty　disappears　entirely　from　the　earth；　it　will　go　on　existing　for　a　while　by　mistake。　'Beauty　by　mistake'—the　final　phase　in　the　history　of　beauty。　
And　she　recalled　her　first　mature　painting；　which　came　into　being　because　some　red　paint　had　dripped　on　it　by　mistake。　Yes；　her　paintings　were　based　on　beauty　by　mistake；　and　New　York　was　the　secret　but　authentic　homeland　of　her　painting。
Franz　said；　Perhaps　New　York's　unintentional　beauty　is　much　richer　and　more　varied　than　the　excessively　strict　and　composed　beauty　of　human　design。　But　it's　not　our　European　beauty。　It's　an　alien　world。　
Didn't　they　then　at　last　agree　on　something？
No。　There　is　a　difference。　Sabina　was　very　much　attracted　by　the　alien　quality　of　New　York's　beauty。　Franz　found　it　intriguing　but　frightening；　it　made　him　feel　homesick　for　Europe。
SABINA'S　COUNTRY
Sabina　understood　Franz's　distaste　for　America。　He　was　the　embodiment　of　Europe：　his　mother　was　Viennese；　his　father　French；　and　he　himself　was　Swiss。
Franz　greatly　admired　Sabina's　country。　Whenever　she　told　him　about　herself　and　her　friends　from　home；　Franz　heard　the　words　prison；　persecution；　enemy　tanks；　emigration；　pamphlets；　banned　books；　banned　exhibitions；　and　he　felt　a　curious　mixture　of　envy　and　nostalgia。
He　made　a　confession　to　Sabina。　A　philosopher　once　wrote　that　everything　in　my　work　is　unverifiable　speculation　and　called　me　a　'pseudo…Socrates。'　I　felt