My Golden Trades

The Smuggler's Story

I HEARD A familiar voice coming over the phone. 'Santa Claus here. Got an hour this afternoon?'

I had.

'Sensational,' said the voice on the other end, in an inimitable accent that could only belong to someone with a Mexican father and an Indian mother. Then he hung up. He obviously believed that the briefer our conversation was, the less suspicion it would arouse in anyone listening in. Whenever he announced himself as Santa Claus, it meant that he'd returned from one of his frequent business trips abroad and was bringing me books.

It was eleven-thirty and snowing heavily. My wife had taken the car earlier that morning, and it would be noon before I could reach her. I'm not very fond of driving, but I had no idea how many bags of contraband St Nicholas had purchased and brought in. He was hard to fathom. There could well be more than I could carry.

I had met Nicholas by accident. The water-pump on my ancient Renault had given up and, after the car had been immobile in the garage for three months, someone gave me Nicholas's name and address, saying that he often travelled out of the country and would certainly bring me

a new pump.

Why should he do that, when he didn't even know me?

He would do it because I was a writer. He loved literature or, to be more precise, he worshipped his wife, who loved literature.

And how would I pay him?

I wasn't to worry about that: for a rich businessman a spare part was no more than a kilo of apples would be for me. Give him a signed copy of one of your books. Or invite him to lunch.

I hesitated for almost a month, but when the water pump for my car was still unavailable, I rang the stranger's doorbell.

In a week I not only had my pump, I had a package of books as well.

He smiled. He was tall, greying, and had a dark complexion. He said it was a pleasure to be able to help me. He held art in the highest esteem, he said, and he understood what a difficult situation I was in.

I gave one of my books to him, with a dedication, and I invited him and his wife to dinner.

Having grown up in an era of paranoia, I was guarded during their visit and did not reveal the secrets of my writing — the only secrets I could have betrayed. But Nicholas did not pry. For a while, he spoke about the world of business, something that for me was exotic and far away. After that his wife, Angela, did most of the talking. She was at least twenty years younger than he was and looked like the angel in her name. We talked about Borges, Márquez and most of all about Cortázar's Rayuela, which both of us admired though we disagreed somewhat over the scene in which the heroine crawls across some rickety

boards stretched between two windows four storeys above the ground merely to satisfy the whims of two strange and indolent men, bringing them a package of mate and a handful of nails across the abyss in the punishing heat. Angela saw in that scene an image of the slavish position of women in her country, while I argued that the scene was meant to represent the heroine's inability to choose between the two men. At the same time, I suggested, the author was paying tribute to women for their courage: women are generally capable of taking risks; men can only admire them for it.

Angela conversed and listened with an intensity that had inspired me to talk about writing, which I normally avoid doing. The conversation seemed to make her happy, and her husband looked content as well.

A month later he unexpectedly called and brought me a package of books, most of which were in Czech. He even brought two or three copies of the same books. He knew, he said, that some of my colleagues were in the same position as I was, and he was sure the books would interest us.

Certainly, but what gave him the idea to bring them to us?

Angela claimed that this was the only way we'd ever get to see such books. I allowed that this was so, thanked him, and distributed the books among my friends.

Some time later he brought me two parcels, not only books this time but also a few magazines, which were even harder to come by. I was delighted, but at the same time I began to feel slightly afraid.

I remembered how, 247 years ago, Jiřík Vostrý, a Protestant missionary, had been caught trying to smuggle

forbidden books from Saxony into Bohemia. They threw him straight into prison but, of course, what interested them most was who the books were for. The jailer pretended to be a friend and told the young, inexperienced smuggler that he would take a letter out for him. That letter, which I recently read in a collection of documents in Litomyšl, spoke to me in a language I knew well:

Kladivo,

I am writing to you from my prison cell with a plea. Should there be any books still in your possession I pray you hide them safely away. And make this known to those you know. I, a prisoner in the name of the Lord, pray you to do this in His name. I assure you I have betrayed no one, so look that you comport yourself likewise. Read this letter, and then give it to him who is faithful. . My wife wasn't at work; she had just gone to pick up the

washing from the laundry. Another delay.

I was anxious because Nicholas had asked me to come

in the afternoon, when he wasn't usually at home. He was

probably worried that if he left it till the evening, when he

came home from work, he could be followed. It

occasionally happened to him, as it did to every

foreigner — and to everyone else in the country. His tail

would stick with him right up to the building where he

lived and then stay there, watching, or at the most retreat

to the tennis-courts at the top of the street. From there, it

was easy to keep an eye not only on the matches but also

on the entrance to Nicholas's building. There they would

stay until they were relieved or called off. I would certainly

not want to appear in their sight, let alone be caught

carrying off a bag of books.

I don't know if I can speak for Nicholas, but personally I had never imagined that one day I would take up smuggling. By the rules that apply in most of the world, smugglers are devious people, with a close knowledge of their territory and their pursuers; men and women with nerves of steel and contempt for the law, both the kind that is written in the statute book and the kind that, although it is not written down anywhere, we sense stands above our every action. I have contempt for neither kind of law, but in our situation, where they contradicted each other, I had to choose between them. Thus, despite my natural disinclination, I have more than once found myself prepared to receive smuggled goods. I find consolation in the fact that, in the conditions prevailing here, it is rare for someone to be doing what he was trained to do, or what he is suited for.

Not long ago Nicholas brought me enough books to fill two bags. Dragging them on to the tram, I looked so suspicious, so desperate even, that people began staring at me, which didn't add to my peace of mind. To make matters worse a man I'd noticed earlier got into the same car as I did. I put one of the bags on my lap and put the other one under the seat so I wouldn't look so burdened. At the same time, I racked my brains trying to think what I'd do and say if the man really was who I feared he was. What if he wanted to search my bags? As it turned out, he didn't, but when I got out of the car I was so preoccupied that I forgot about the bag under the seat. I was already on my way out when a kind woman called me back. Is there any way I can thank her enough? In the bag I was apparently determined to leave behind on the tram were all

my identification papers. I don't know how I'd have explained the contents of the bag to those who consider all books that have not passed through a censor's hands to be contraband.

The thing I'd almost done startled and frightened me. I began thinking I should ask Nicholas not to bring me any more books, but I was ashamed to refuse gifts offered to me with such magnanimity just because of my fear. Beyond that, the books seemed to me the last bridge to a part of the world that was fading ever more rapidly from view.

As more items are prohibited, more amateurs take up smuggling. I learned this in the ghetto during the war, where almost everything became unobtainable — rice, cocoa, cigarette-lighters, writing-paper, coffee and candles, not to mention jewellery, cigarettes or money. Even the most decent, law-abiding souls decided to ignore such perverted regulations. Where the law goes berserk, all of us become felons. My father, a scholar led by the very essence of his work to be a man of anxious propriety, brought within the ghetto walls a roll of thousand-crown notes and for the first time in his life was confronted with the basic problem every smuggler faces: where to hide his stash.

In the room we were forced to live in at the time, there was only a single piece of furniture — an old sideboard with many battered drawers. When the drawer on the extreme left was pulled out, a small depression could be felt on the side wall, a flaw left by the cabinet-maker. It proved an ideal hiding place for our treasure. The opening for the drawer was so narrow that only a child's arm could reach in, so I was given the task of placing the roll of money into the depression. I wasn't to breathe a word of what I had done to anyone, nor was I allowed to get fat, or the hiding

place would have become inaccessible. I carried out my task faithfully, and thus at the age of ten found myself a member of the criminal fraternity.

I entered that company in the firm conviction that I had done good work.

It was two-thirty when I finally reached Nicholas's house. It was still snowing heavily. Here, on the outskirts of the city, the snow did not melt, but settled thickly on tree branches and the roof-tops. The chain-link fence surrounding the tennis-courts stretched like a swag of lace between iron poles. In the middle of the road, cars had made deep ruts in the snow. I knew this end of the city well. My first love had lived not far from here and we had often wandered the neighbouring streets looking for dark corners where we could embrace. Right now I wasn't thinking about that. Right now the world had become an alien and hostile place, and everyone in it was a potential threat.

You should always mentally rehearse how you would behave and what you would say if you were arrested. It wasn't hard to guess what they would ask.

'What books have you brought with you?' the investigator asked the twenty-seven-year-old smuggler of subversive books, Jiřík Vostrý, on 19 April, 1732.

'I have brought three. One: The New Testament; Two: On True Christianity, Three: Two Countrymen Converse on the Subject of Faith.'

'Where are those books now and for whom were they intended?'

' On True Christianity was received by Litochlev; he gave me one score and ten groschen for it. Two Countrymen Converse, that went to Kaliban, a miller from Kamenné

Sedliště. And the third remained in my pocket; it was confiscated when I was taken.'

'At first you claimed you traded only with Litochleb in Morašice and Kladivo in Lubný. Now you tell me you also called upon the miller in Sedliště?'

'I did. I had forgotten.'

'And how did you come by the knowledge that the miller of Sedliště also cleaved to your cause?'

'I was told he had knowledge of our faith. Litochlev told me.'

'What did you do when you were with this miller, this Kaliban? What was your talk about?'

'Our talk was of God. He told me his people were in sore need of help, for they were weak in the faith. I assured him the Lord God would give them strength.'

'And what else?'

'I don't remember.'

'Who else did you speak with? Who were you going to see? What others have knowledge of your faith?'

'I know none.'

That was two and a half centuries ago. It's exactly the same now, right down to the inaccuracies in the report. How well I know it! They are incapable of setting down names correctly.

I took a careful look around the tennis-courts. Two mothers were pushing prams alongside the lace fence. No one else was in sight. But there was a delivery van parked at the top of the street. The spies could easily be secreted inside with their cameras. I studied the vehicle. Though I couldn't see inside, it appeared cold and empty.

The street I now entered was a dead end — a perfect trap. I had to walk past three small villas before I got to the

building where Nicholas lived. I looked around once more. A snow-covered Saab was parked by the kerb opposite his house — but that belonged here. A short distance down the street, however, I saw a caravan that hadn't been here two months ago.

That frightened me.

I don't feel a great affinity for those who smuggled books into this country before the Edict of Toleration of 1781, subversive books which the authorities of that time thought should have been burned. Or at least — unlike those book smugglers of old — I don't hold printed paper in such high regard. The things we write are no longer prompted by God and therefore they are as we ourselves are: good and evil, sometimes wise, and often foolish. Censorship may add to a book's appeal, but it can add nothing to its wisdom.

I walked over to the caravan. The snow around it was untouched, and the boarded window on the windward side was completely covered with sticky snow; there was no opening through which a hidden camera might peer. I went up to the main entrance to Nicholas's building. I was just reaching out to ring the bell when I realized I'd forgotten to take a final look around. I withdrew my hand, stared a moment longer at the column of name-plates by the gate, even though I normally pay no attention to them. Then I turned around slowly. The windows of the building across the street were dark, the curtains drawn. If anyone were hiding behind them, I had no hope of seeing. An elderly lady leading a reddish boxer was walking in my direction from the tiny park. The dog stopped and plunged his muzzle into the snow; the lady bent over him. I could still pretend that I hadn't found the name I was looking for and stroll over to the main entrance of the next apartment

building, but I suddenly felt disgusted at the comedy I'd been playing to this innocent old woman. I pressed the doorbell.

Ten years ago my wife and I went on a cruise to Israel, our first visit to that part of the world. The trip had been my wife's idea and she had triumphed over the customary reluctance of officials to permit such journeys to happen. She had moved about the ship in a state of rapture. She was delighted to discover that there were several Israeli citizens on board and she immediately set about to make friends. Her favourite was a black-haired, dark-skinned Levantine woman, who reminded me of the gypsies that ran carnival merry-go-rounds. She taught my wife Israeli songs and won her heart. It turned out that the woman's gesture was not entirely altruistic. As we neared Haifa, she came forward with a request. She was taking her mother a small rug from Greece. Nothing special, but customs officials tend to be more difficult with their own citizens than with foreigners. Could my wife take the carpet through customs for her? The Levantine thrust at my wife a roll of something that weighed more than all our baggage put together. It was carefully wrapped in dark brown paper.

I asked my wife if she was aware that the parcel might well contain a disassembled machine-gun or cocaine or a stolen Leonardo or gold bars, but she was positive the parcel contained nothing but a carpet. Why should her new friend lie to her? I tried to explain that she could be the victim of a professional smuggler and that it would be prudent either to return the parcel or at least to unwrap it and see what was really inside.

My wife said that she would never stoop to open someone else's parcel.

Meanwhile the boat had docked and the owner of the parcel had vanished into the crowd of passengers. We could leave the parcel on the boat, throw it overboard or carry it through customs. My wife was never particularly strong, but she refused to let me carry the parcel because I didn't trust its contents. She heaved it on to her shoulder and, bending under its weight, walked down the gangplank.

We entered an enormous hall where there was a crowd of people, some in uniform and some not. It became clear that the most thorough customs inspection I had ever witnessed was taking place. We approached a long counter where, under the customs officers' gaze, people were being asked to empty their suitcases, hand luggage and purses. I watched with astonishment the transformation this wrought in my wife. She straightened up so that the heavy roll on her shoulders seemed almost to float, and then with an expression of confidence and certainty that only the utter absence of guilt can produce, she stepped up to the counter. When she was asked what was in the parcel on her shoulder, she replied that it was a carpet for an acquaintance.

They waved us through the barrier.

We will never know what it was we were actually carrying, but I understood then what sort of face a good smuggler should put on. I also knew that given my anxieties, I would never make the grade.

Angela came to the gate, greeted the woman with the dog and held her mouth up to be kissed.

On a bench in the hall inside their flat were three bags, crammed full. 'These are for you,' she said. 'Would you like tea?'

It would have been impolite to pick up the bags and scoot out of the door with them, as I had hoped to do. I could see Angela wanted me to sit and talk with her for a while. She must have been bored, spending all those hours alone in a strange flat on the edge of a strange city in the middle of a strange land and among people whose language she did not understand. I peered into one of the bags and saw the flash of shiny covers, but I overcame the desire to kneel down beside the bag and begin rummaging inside. This time I had been bold enough to give Nicholas a list of some books I particularly wanted to read. Had he managed to get them? I pulled the zip shut and went to wait for the tea.

Angela came in with a silver tray holding a teapot. She poured me a cup of mate.

Angela is Argentinian, and whenever I find myself near her, I'm always subliminally aware of the distance she has travelled to appear before me. Between us lay jungles and wide rivers, the pampas; a landscape I will almost certainly never behold.

She sat down opposite me, poured herself a glass of wine, tossed back her long black hair so that it fell over her left shoulder down to her waist, removed her glasses and looked at me intently. The colour and shape of her eyes revealed some of her ancestors to be Indians. Angela should have married a poet, not a businessman. Had she done so, either she would have been happy or she would have discovered that poets are people just as businessmen are, and that you can be as happy or as miserable with them as you can with anyone else.

I knew that her journey away from her country — and thus to Nicholas — had not been easy.

Borders, or rather their guardians, present barriers not only to smugglers and fleeing criminals. Of course, the more ruthless the guardians, the more inventive and daring those who feel themselves imprisoned by the border guards become. They dig tunnels under the walls or barbed wire, they sew together hot-air balloons from bed-sheets, they construct trolleys to run along high-tension wires, and they fling themselves against the barbed wire, knowing that they will most likely be shot. They undergo all this in order to carry themselves across the invisible borderline, over the prison wall. For a moment, a man transforms himself into a thing, turns himself into a piece of contraband, in the hope that he may never again be an object of arbitrary power.

Angela said that her escape from her country had been less dramatic. Her friends got her a false passport. But she still occasionally dreamed about a moment when an armed guard at the border takes her passport, looks at the photograph, then at her face, and nods to someone invisible. From a concealed place, some monster with foam dripping from his fangs comes roaring out, grabs her and drags her off. Sometimes she is taken to the very border, which runs along a narrow path on a ridge of mountain peaks. On each side an abyss drops away, and she knows that they will fling her down on one side or the other.

She poured me more tea, more wine for herself, and began to talk about her life before she left her country.

Her father was a colonel in the army. Their household had servants, but it was loveless. Her father behaved in a military fashion: he was courtly and selfless to others, but arrogant and unyielding towards his own. He expected Angela's mother to ensure that everything was done to his satisfaction. When she became seriously ill, he took it as a

personal affront. He ignored his wife's suffering, refused to change his ways or even to give up drinking with his companions. He was drunk when she died. After she was gone, he began to miss her, or at least to miss the care she took of him. He drank more, hung around the casinos, and eventually squandered his house and his reputation. He moved into a tiny, ramshackle structure on the fringes of Rosario. They let the maid go. Angela was only twelve at the time, but she devoted herself to her father, making sure he always found everything in order, that he always had his evening meal. She wanted to recreate a feeling of home— but he scarcely took any notice. Except once, when he came back from the casino in a particularly elated mood. He pulled a fistful of banknotes from his pocket, probably money he had won at baccarat or poker, and forced her to accept them, saying she deserved it. He didn't understand her at all.

I had no idea why Angela was telling this to me today, but I listened to her attentively, and would have listened with more compassion had my mental clock not reminded me of the danger of staying too long. A professional smuggler, I felt, wouldn't linger knowing his mortal enemies could be approaching.

The poverty they found themselves in, Angela continued, had a profound effect on her brother. He studied law, but then left school and began to work in the unions. Several times she went to see him address meetings. He captivated his audience like the lead actor in a drama. But this wasn't theatre. One day her brother didn't come home. She never heard from him again. For a long time, she consoled herself with the thought that he was in hiding somewhere, but then one by one his companions began to disappear, most

of them without a trace. They only ever found one of them. His mutilated body was washed up by the Paraná River. The corpse had its eyes poked out and there were patches of burned skin on its chest. From that day on, waking or sleeping, Angela could not get out of her mind an image of her brother with his arms and legs bound together, and strange men beating and torturing him. She saw the iron rod being driven into his eyes.

I could see her pain and suffering. And instead of taking advantage of the falling darkness and creeping away with the bags of books, I reached out my hand to stroke her long hair, forgetting that in ancient myths, long hair was a harbinger of danger.

It seems to me that there is a raging demon, a monstrous cloud of our own creation, wandering the earth. Its shadow falls on different parts of the world, sometimes darkening whole continents. The cloud had been suspended above Angela's country. God knows where it would stop next.

'I had to run away,' she whispered, as though she were apologizing. 'They wipe out entire families, and even burn down their houses.' At first it was not easy, then she met Nicholas. Nicholas is an exceptional person; perhaps he shouldn't be a businessman at all, because he has a need to help others. Did I know that his mother knew Gandhi personally, and took part in most of his non-violent actions?

Eventually, what had to happen did happen — outside I heard the sound of an approaching car.

Angela ran to the window. 'Nicholas,' she announced. 'It looks like he's being followed. And I kept you here so long!'

It no longer made any sense to hurry. I sat talking to Nicholas for a while, then arranged to stop by for the bags in three days so I wouldn't be showing up here too often. I

thanked Nicholas for everything he was doing for me. He smiled. 'They're only books,' he said, and we parted.

The men who had tailed Nicholas were waiting in a car by the tennis-courts. When I walked out through the gate, they turned their headlights on, perhaps to let me know they were there, or perhaps just to get a better look at me.

Through the windows of the neighbouring houses the blue light of television screens glowed. 'Why do people watch television?' Nicholas had once asked me in amazement. 'They must know they're being lied to.'

I suddenly realized why he smuggled in all those books. Though a foreigner, he divined that those books — mostly written by Czechs, and banned by our overlords — belonged to us. Like his mother, he believed in non-violent resistance.

During the war the rooms in which we were imprisoned were patrolled by three especially well-trained spies. Accompanied by an armed man, these Three Fates, or Three Sowbugs, as they were called, would usually sweep in early in the morning, before the men had gone to work, and search our rooms for contraband. They emptied suitcases, burrowed into sheets, slit open straw mattresses and eiderdowns, felt coatsleeves, poured sugar, ersatz coffee or other luxuries on to the floor, and even prised up floorboards. They rarely discovered anything. But anyone found guilty was sent away to a place where only gas chambers awaited them.

One morning they came bursting in on us. I was still asleep and when I saw them in that first moment of awakening, anxiety gripped me by the throat. I had to get up, dress, all the time looking on while they worked. I knew all too well where the contraband was hidden — the roll of banknotes burned a hole in the wood and fell to my

feet like ash — but I also knew that I must not look in that direction. So I stared at the wall in front of me, and occasionally stole a glance at those three women absorbed in their unwomanly work. Sidelong, I saw them only as strange, moving monsters with fuzzy outlines.

Until they approached the sideboard that is; then I suddenly saw them sharply: three fat ugly old women, one of whom was just opening the fateful drawer. I remember noticing clearly her chubby hands and realizing at that moment that not one of the women could have reached into our hiding place. I felt the joyous laughter of relief rising within me. I was able to suppress it, but it rang inside me all the time those women were rummaging among our things. It was a laughter which, on that occasion at least, ushered death from our door.

I walked casually back to my car. I might have left it there, walked past the tennis-court and run down some of the steep lanes on the hillside, but if they were determined to follow me there was little I could do to escape. Moreover, I didn't have a single illegal item on me. I wasn't carrying rice or cocoa or writing-paper. But the definition of contraband changes with the wandering of that monstrous cloud. The current definition took greatest exception to ideas, that is, to anything that could disseminate them. Instead of being entrusted to three fat women, the search for contraband was now conducted by entire special departments provided with expensive but effective technology. Everything was done to ensure that not a single impulse of the spirit nor the sound of pure speech could ever occur in the territory they controlled.

Normally, I don't even notice the activities of these departments, or at least I try not to let them get to me. I

don't want them to smother my world. Occasionally, however, they make an appearance. I open my eyes in the morning and see them slitting open my books, dusting white powder on my floor, reading my letters. Or I hear about the flames they leave behind in their footsteps. Or they emerge from the darkness and shine their lights on me, reminders of death with whom they are allied. At such moments, I am possessed by a will to resist; I must do something quickly— to show myself that I am still alive, that the world in which I move is still human. I am prepared to weave in and out of the lights that pursue me, to seek out a secret hiding place, and when it seems at last that I have deceived their vigilance, I hear inside me the laughter of relief.

I knocked the snow off my boots, swung my arms back and forth to let them know that my hands were empty. I unlocked the car and got in. I had to drive past them; there was no other way out. They started off behind me.

I shouldn't have cared. There was nothing in the car but a basket of damp laundry my wife had picked up. They could have noted down my registration number before I drove off.

So why were they following me? Did they know something about those occasional bags full of books? Or did they not know, but suspect something else? Or was it that they didn't know, and suspected nothing in particular, but were merely running a routine check on Nicholas to see who he associated with? Who did Nicholas associate with? I had no idea.

They were keeping close. They had a better, newer car than I did, and it was equipped with a two-way radio they could use to call for help, or to send instructions ahead to stop me at the first major intersection. Nevertheless, I

longed to escape them.

I drove slowly through the fresh drifts of snow. At the first junction I braked, and my followers came to a halt behind me. The street I was intending to take climbed steeply up to the top of a hill. Several cars were descending towards the junction, and I waited until they were very close, then I moved out, stepped on the accelerator, and roared up the hill. Halfway up, I looked around. They hadn't managed to get away; they were still waiting until the cars descending the slippery hill had cleared the junction. I managed to reach the next corner before I saw them in the distance.

For a while I wound through some narrow back streets, constantly turning corners until, yes, there was a building I knew, with a wide gate leading to a large inner courtyard. As far as I could remember there was, or had been, a small park inside. There was even a bench hidden under the trees where my first love and I had necked. I drove through the gate. The trees had grown and there were more cars than I remembered, but I managed to find an empty space and parked in it. I walked back to the gate, and watched the street outside. They was no sign of them.

I got into my car again and, on a sudden whim, drove directly to the place where they would least expect to find me.

I stopped in front of Nicholas's house.

'What an idea,' said Angela, surprised to see me. 'You'd have probably tried to walk across those planks, too,' she added, referring to our conversation about Cortázar. Nicholas took one of the bags and carried it out for me.

I threw the bags on the floor between the front and back seats, then got in and drove off, taking the route I had followed a while before, except that instead of turning up

the hill, I drove down it towards my home. The only problem was that to get there I had to drive right across the city. If they wanted to, they could certainly find me somewhere along the way. Returning for the bags probably hadn't been a very wise thing to do. I could still hear Angela's excited voice evoking images of bloody faces, tortured bodies and burning homes.

Night was falling and the snow was beginning to freeze. As I drove around a corner the car went into a dangerous skid. All it needed was a car coming in the other direction: a collision would have brought out the very people I wanted to avoid. It was better not to think about it. A pair of headlights glared in my rear-view mirror. Was it them? What should I do now that I was really carrying smuggled goods? I drove on, watching the mirror. I tried, without success, to determine how many people were in the car, and what kind of people they were. Not looking where I was driving*, I hit a large pothole in the middle of the road; the suspension complained and the basket of laundry slid forward and bumped into the back of my seat. I slowed down. I was in danger of becoming paranoid. I turned on to a main street that would take me to the river. There were several cars behind me now, as well as in front. It made no sense to try to keep track of them.

Last spring, outside the house where I live, two workmen were repairing a fence. They were a product of our era. They drank beer, stood by the fence and enjoyed the spring sun, delighted that they'd been sent to work in such a pretty and remote part of town. They managed to spread work that should have taken two days over the whole week. Occasionally they would ring my doorbell and offer to drink coffee with me, or something stronger. One day, when the

bell rang just before noon, I assumed it was them again and toyed with the idea of pretending I hadn't heard them.

Outside the door stood a short, pale man. Even before I spoke, I could see he was a foreigner. He wanted to be reassured that he wasn't putting me in any danger by coming in. Once inside the door, he asked me if I was always so closely watched. He'd been trying to visit me for three days.

He was a young priest and he'd smuggled in several books for me that were as innocent as he was. When he saw the two men lounging about, never actually working but never going far from my gate, he assumed they were secret policemen. He'd buried the books under some leaves in a nearby wood.

On the way to the wood I explained his mistake to him.

He laughed and, as if to apologize, remarked that when a man enters the kingdom of Satan, he expects to see devils at every turn.

Paranoia is something that diseased spirits succumb to, but if we live in a diseased world it requires ever greater efforts to banish sinister expectations.

I saw them from a distance. The yellow car was parked by the edge of the road, and one of the uniformed officers was signalling to me in the regulation manner with a luminous baton.

Of course. Why should they chase me when they could simply lie in wait? The road was like a mountain pass — the only route a smuggler can take, and where he is most frequently apprehended.

I stopped.

'Road check. Could I see your documents, please?'

I turned off the engine and got out of the car. The road

was covered in slush; the salt truck must already have gone by. The man in the uniform leafed through my I.D.

The advantage that Jiřík Vostrý—arrested two and a half centuries ago with three books — had over me is that I had three bags of books. My only advantage might have been that I was older and therefore more experienced. I knew that I should speak as little as possible, mention no names, never get into an argument or try to persuade them of anything, even if they looked as though they were listening with interest or sympathy. What a person says in good confidence is bound to be turned against him or, what is worse, against those close to him.

'Who were you with in Pardubice, and why did you go there?' they asked Jiřík Vostrý.

'I went there to do trade in textiles,' was the excuse he came up with.

I was coming from the laundry, but this would not explain anything if I was caught with the evidence.

About a month ago, they sent a young woman to jail for a year for typing copies of several books like the ones now in my possession. Her books would not have quarter-filled one of my bags. She had two small children; usually the court took such factors into account and handed down a suspended sentence. On this occasion her crime had obviously been of such a serious and dangerous nature that it warranted more.

'You were with someone, and also brought some books with you,' they said to Jiřík Vostrý.

'I was with no one, nor did I bring any books with me. I was searched at the customs house.'

'Who brought you here to the jail?'

'Some four men.'

'What did you say to them on the way?'

'I said that in our country we do not bow to the cross, for that is idolatry.'

In his zeal he had said more than he should have and they — for it is part of their nature — reported everything. The smuggler of long ago had a difficult time; he had also entrusted his jailer with the secret letter.

'Is it true that from the magistrate's jail you sent a letter alerting someone to danger?'

'My message was that if they had books they ought to put them away.'

'And whom did you so advise?'

'Litochleb and Kladivo and also Kaliban, the miller from Sedliště.'

'Is this the message?' [Exhibitae eidem schedulae, quae in allegatis lit. A et B videntur]

'It is.'

'Through whose offices did you write and send this letter?'

'The jailer led me to believe he would deliver it.'

'You must have been here bearing books before; and you must also know of people who cleave to your faith.'

'I know nothing; nor of anyone.'

The worst crime of all was to circulate forbidden books. Three young men from the place where Jiřík Vostrý was apprehended 247 years ago were recently given a total of six and a half years in prison for the same activity.

'Aren't you employed anywhere?' asked the officer leafing through my I.D. He seemed surprised. He was rather heavily built. There was a small moustache under his nose.

'I'm free-lance.'

He looked at me suspiciously, as if this was the first time

he had heard the expression. Perhaps he simply did not like the word 'free'. Could I prove that? he asked.

I handed him a piece of paper confirming that I was covered by social insurance.

He pretended to examine the paper, then folded it and handed it back to me. He kept my other documents. 'Have you had anything to drink, sir?'

I hadn't. I had no intention of tempting fate any more than necessary.

He put on an expression that suggested he did not entirely believe me. Then he asked me to turn on the headlights.

They were working properly.

Could he see my first-aid kit?

I would have to open the back door. I saw with relief that the laundry basket almost completely covered the bags containing the books. But in my excitement I could not remember' where I kept my first-aid kit. I groped haphazardly under the seat, trying to shield the books with my body.

The uniformed men watched with interest. 'Do you know what they call the first-aid kit, sir?' the one who had not previously spoken asked. 'I'll tell you. They call it "handy". And do you know why?'

I was forced to listen to the etymology of the word 'handy'.

'Why aren't you carrying your laundry in the boot?' said the first officer, suddenly bringing the conversation to its point.

About five years ago, my theatrical agent from the United States came to see me. She was an older woman who had been born in Europe and had experienced all that

continent's cultural benefits, including a concentration camp. In other words she was well equipped to understand the course of events that had determined my life. I needed to send a letter to a friend in Switzerland. The content of the letter was harmless even with regard to our vigilant laws, but the notion that a third party might read it disturbed me. I asked my American friend if she would take the letter across the border for me. At the airport, however, she was subjected to a thorough search. When she was forced to take the letter from her pocket, she tore open the envelope and, before they were able to snatch the letter from her hand, she put it into her mouth and, before the customs officers' eyes, chewed and swallowed it.

Could I eat three bags of books?

My only consolation was the knowledge that the worst cloud had already passed over our country: they wouldn't put out my eyes.

I finally found the first-aid kit and handed it to the officer with the moustache. 'My spare tyre is in the boot.' I said, by way of explanation.

'Could you show us?'

The first-aid kit under a pile of rags; bags on the floor; a basket full of laundry on the seat; the spare tyre in the boot. Sir, there's something about you we don't like. Put the spare where it belongs. Put the first-aid kit in the glove-compartment. And take those bags and put them in the boot. Here, we'll help you. My goodness, sir, these bags weigh a ton. What on earth do you have in them?

Both officers leaned into the boot and tested the depth of the tread on my spare tyre. 'I'm not surprised you keep this hidden, sir. When was the last time you put any air in it?'

A few days ago.' I could not understand why they were

putting off the moment when they would display interest in what they were really after.

'A few days ago. Would you mind checking the pressure for us?'

I had a gauge in a compartment next to the steering-wheel. Regardless of the pressure it always gave a reading of two atmospheres.

'You're in luck,' one of them said, looking sceptically at the needle, which was pointing reliably to the two.

'You may close the boot,' said the other one.

'Get back in to the car,' said the first.

Suddenly I understood the mystery of this pointless and rather protracted game. Their orders were to stop me and detain me. The officers who were really interested in me and my contraband had, for some reason, been held up. When they arrived and saw my bags, they would be delighted: Surely you don't mean to tell me someone put these bags m your car without your knowledge, sir?

Indeed, such a claim would not sound credible. Where, then, had I got the bags from? It's odd that although we've had 247 years to work on it, we have not yet come up with even a slightly probable reply to a highly probable question.

What alibi could I come up with on the spur of the moment? I had brought them from home, where a stranger had left them. But why would I have them in my car now? In a rush, I weighed various unconvincing explanations in my mind. I just put them there and then forgot about them? I wanted to store them at a relative's flat, then changed my mind? I was on my way to hand them in to the authorities?

He opens one of them. I realize I've made another irretrievable mistake. I'd spent the whole afternoon with Angela and without so much as glancing into the three

bags. Unlike Jiřík Vostrý, I didn't know what books I had on my hands. I might have had magazines in the bags; they tend to get very upset about magazines.

So you're bringing them from home. Well, what about this one? And with great distaste, he spells out the name of the author and the title. Is this your book?

It's my book.

Who did you get it from?

I was given it. That's not against the law.

And did you read it?

I have a lot of books I haven't managed to read yet.

You might at least have unwrapped it, he says, looking at me disapprovingly. You've left it all wrapped up like a piece of cheese. Not only that, you've got two copies of it. He rummages around in the bag some more and corrects himself: Three! Where were you taking these bags?

For years now I've had a running debate with those who liken books to explosives or drugs. During that time, I've prepared a lengthy speech in which I defend freedom of creation, which is part of a dignified and truthful life. But I have never had the occasion to deliver the speech. The temptation to do it now is powerful. But I mustn't succumb. To entrust my own convictions to these men in uniform would be just as silly now as it was two and a half centuries ago.

The two of them were talking something over; perhaps they were radioing in a query. It seemed undignified to watch.

When the others, whom they are clearly waiting for, come, I should at least pose them a question: Why, by what authority, do you of all people, who are so convinced that the life of man is limited to this insignificant little patch

of time when he dwells upon the earth, transform our lives into a suffocating mixture of lies, filth and repression?

No one else comes, but the two uniformed officers return to my car.

'Sir, are you aware of which traffic regulation you've broken?' They wait for a moment, and then the one with the moustache tries to help out: 'When you stopped, did you turn out your lights?'

'Was I driving without my headlights on?' It was not my negligence that astonished me, but the fact that they had spent so long in coming up with something so trivial.

'That's right, sir. And in this weather. Do you know that this could have cost you your license?' The two of them watched me, and when I didn't protest, the one with the moustache asked: 'Are you willing to pay us a hundred crown fine on the spot?'

I took out a big, green banknote and then, with dismay, I realized that I was handing it over far too willingly.

They gave me the requisite ticket from their booklet, and wished me a good trip. From their expressions I could tell that this had made them feel good; they'd done some useful work.

My wife was waiting impatiently, afraid that something bad had happened. We carried the bags into the room, and I unwrapped the books, which smelled of newness. The titles promised the intellectual consolation of pure, original language.

I opened one of the volumes, but I was unable to concentrate on the contents.

Nicholas had indeed bought two, or even three copies of some of the books. That meant that the next day, I would be a messenger and go to Morašice, to Lubný, and then to

see Kaliban in Kamenné Sedliště.

What was Jiřík Vostry's fate? They let him go, of course. The eighteenth century wasn't the middle ages, after all. The archives have preserved a later report of him. The incorrigible smuggler — now thirty years older — was apprehended again. From the interrogation it is clear that in the intervening years Vostrý had not been idle. At one time he had been imprisoned at lytomyšl where he 'remained for three years less eight weeks.' (We will never know how often, during the rest of those years, he had successfully evaded capture.) He was released for good behaviour, and he rushed home to his wife and children.

No record has been preserved of how he fared in his last trial, but everything suggests that this time he didn't get off so easily. The Edict of Toleration, which made book smuggling pointless for the next two hundred years, was soon to be law. If only Vostrý had been twenty years younger.

But such is the deceitful game of history. People sacrifice their time, put their freedom and even their lives at risk just to cross, or eliminate, borders they know are absurd. And then — often soon afterwards — in a single instant, as a consequence of a single decree, the border disappears without a trace.

In revealing their transience, these borders also seem to expose the futility of all the former sacrifices. But perhaps it is really the other way around: if it weren't for those who, in their battle against borders, risked everything, the borders would not disappear, but would become a net and all of us trapped insects inside.

Suddenly my wife thought of something: 'Did you bring in the laundry basket?'

The basket was still in the car.

It was no longer snowing outside, and stars were shining through ragged, fast flying clouds. The snow sparkled in the light of the streetlamps. In the distance, I could hear a police siren.

I unlocked the garage and pulled the laundry basket out of the car. It seemed unusually heavy and, when I walked up the stairs, something inside it clinked metallically.

I felt like lifting up the laundry to see what was hidden underneath it, but I managed to control my curiosity. I set the basket down on the dining-room table as carefully as possible and went away to read.