The JOKE (34 page)

I looked away. There was only a handful of people left on the green, at the stands and at the tavern door. Most of them were drunk. Drunkards are the most loyal supporters of folk festivals. The last supporters. Once in a while, at least, they have a noble pretext for taking a drink.

Then old man Pechacek sat beside me on the bench. He said it wasn't like old times. I agreed. It wasn't. How beautiful the Rides must have been decades or centuries ago! They weren't as gaudy as they are today. Nowadays they're part kitsch, part fairground masquerade. Gingerbread hearts on the horses' breasts! Loads of paper garlands bought in department stores! The costumes were always colorful, but they used to be simple. The horses were adorned with just one red scarf, tied under the neck across the breast. And the king never had a mask of colored ribbons, just a veil. And he had a rose between his teeth. So he couldn't speak.

Yes, old man, it was better back then. No one had to run after young people who might graciously consent to take part in the Ride. No one had to spend days at meetings arguing over who would organize the Ride and who would receive the proceeds. The Ride of the Kings used to gush forth over the life of a village, like a spring. It would gallop from village to village gathering alms for its masked king. Sometimes it met up with another Ride in another village and there would be a battle. Both sides defended their kings ferociously. Knives and sabers would flash, blood flow. When one Ride captured another's king, they would drink themselves into a stupor at the expense of the king's father.

You're right, old man, you're right. Back when I rode as the king, during the occupation, it was different from today. And after the war too, it was still worth doing. We thought we were about to build a completely new world. That people would return to folk traditions. That even the Ride of the Kings would once again spring forth from the depths of their lives. We wanted to help this springing forth. We sweated to organize folk festivals. But a spring can't be organized. Either it gushes or it doesn't. Look, old man, now we're just wringing it out, our little songs, our Rides, everything. These are the last drops, the droplets, the very last.

Ah, well. The Ride had vanished. It had probably turned into some side street. But we could still hear the heralds. Their calls were magnificent. I closed my eyes and for a moment imagined myself living in another time. In another century. Long ago. And then I opened my eyes and told myself it was good after all that Vladimir was king. He is king of an almost extinct kingdom, but a most magnificent kingdom. A kingdom to which I will remain faithful to the end.

I stood up from the bench. Someone had greeted me. It was old Koutecky. I hadn't seen him in a long time. He had trouble walking and leaned on a cane. I'd never liked him, but his old age aroused my pity. "Where are you off to?" I asked. He said he took a constitutional every Sunday. "How did you like the Ride?" I asked him. He waved his hand. "Didn't even watch it." "Why not?" I asked. Again he waved his hand in annoyance, and it dawned on me then why he hadn't watched: Ludvik was among the spectators. Koutecky didn't want to see him any more than I did.

"Can't say that I blame you," I said. "My son's in the Ride, but even so I don't feel like trailing after it." "Your son? You mean Vladimir?" "Yes," I said, "he's the king."

Koutecky said: "That's interesting." "Why?" I asked. "Very interesting," said Koutecky, his eyes lighting up. "Why is that?" I asked again. "Because Vladimir is with our Milos,"

said Koutecky. I had no idea who Milos was. Milos was his grandson, he told me, his daughter's son. "But that's impossible," I said, "I saw him, I saw him riding off on his horse!" "I saw him too. Milos went off with him from our place on his motorcycle," said the old man. "That doesn't make any sense!" I said, but then I asked: "Where were they going?" "If you don't know, I'm not going to be the one to tell you!" said Koutecky, taking his leave.

7

I hadn't expected to meet Zemanek (Helena had told me he would be here, but not until the afternoon), and of course I found it extremely unpleasant. But what could I do? There he was, standing in front of me, looking just the way he used to look: his blond hair was as blond as ever, even though he no longer combed it back in long curls but wore it short and brushed fashionably forward over his forehead; he stood as erect as ever and still arched his neck back; he was still jovial and complacent, invulnerable, still enjoyed the favor of the angels and now also of a young girl whose beauty immediately reminded me of the painful imperfection of the body I had been with yesterday afternoon.

Hoping that our encounter would be brief, I tried to answer his banal questions with equally banal responses: he repeated that we hadn't seen each other for years, adding how surprising it was that after so long an interval we should meet "in this godforsaken hole"; I told him I was born here; he apologized and said that in that case it was certainly not all that forsaken; Miss Broz laughed. I didn't react to his jest, saying instead that I wasn't surprised to see him here because, if I remembered correctly, he'd always loved folklore; Miss Broz laughed again and said they hadn't come here for the Ride of the Kings; I asked her whether she had anything against the Ride of the Kings; she said it didn't interest her; I asked her why; she shrugged, and Zemanek said: "Ludvik, times have changed."

Meanwhile, the Ride of the Kings had moved one house farther, and two of the riders were struggling with their horses, which had become agitated. One rider shoved at the other, scolding him for failing to control his horse, and the cries of "idiot" and "moron"

mingled rather drolly with the ritual of the festival. Miss Broz said: "Wouldn't it be great if the horse bolted!" Zemanek laughed heartily at this, but by now the riders had managed to calm their horses down, and Hear ye, hear ye again resounded solemnly through the village.

As we followed the sounds of the Bide down a side street lined with gardens full of flowers, I was hunting in vain for some natural pretext for saying good-bye to Zemanek; I had to walk dutifully alongside his pretty companion and continue to trade remarks with her: I learned that in Bratislava, where they had been this morning, the weather was as nice as it was here; I learned that they had driven here in Zemanek's car and that just outside Bratislava they'd had to change the spark plugs; then I learned that Miss Broz was one of Zemanek's students. I knew from Helena that he gave courses in Marxism-Leninism at the university, but even so I asked him what he taught there. He told me he was teaching
philosophy
(his use of this word struck me as revealing; a few years ago he would still have said
Marxism,
but in recent years this subject had so declined in popularity, especially among the young, that Zemanek, for whom popularity had always been of paramount importance, delicately concealed Marxism behind the more general term). I expressed surprise, saying that if I remembered correctly, Zemanek had studied biology; this remark was a malicious allusion to the dilettantism of university teachers of Marxism who entered the field not so much through scholarly research but by serving as propagandists. Miss Broz now entered the conversation to announce that teachers of Marxism had a political pamphlet in their skulls instead of a brain, but that Pavel was entirely different. Pavel welcomed these words; he protested mildly, thereby demonstrating his modesty and at the same time provoking the young woman to further praise. In this way I learned that Zemanek was one of the most popular teachers and that his students worshiped him for not being liked by the university authorities: for always saying what he thought, for being courageous and sticking up for the young. Zemanek continued to protest mildly, and so I learned from his companion further details of the various battles Zemanek had fought in recent years: how the authorities had even wanted to throw him out for not sticking to the rigid, outdated curriculum and for trying to introduce the young people to everything going on in modern philosophy (they claimed he had wanted to smuggle in "hostile ideology"); how he'd saved a student from expulsion for some boyish prank (a dispute with a policeman) that the chancellor (Zemanek's enemy) had characterized as a
political
misdemeanor; how afterwards the female students had held a secret poll to determine their favorite teacher, and how he had won it. Zemanek had by now halted all attempts to stem the flood of praise, and I said (with an irony, alas, hardly comprehensible to Miss Broz) that I could see what she meant because, as I remembered it, Zemanek had been enormously popular back in my own student days. Miss Broz agreed enthusiastically: she wasn't in the least surprised, since Pavel was a fabulous speaker and could cut any opponent to pieces in a debate. "Yes, that's true," Zemanek admitted, laughing, "but even if I cut them to pieces in a debate, they can cut me to pieces in different and more effective ways."

In the vanity of this last remark I recognized the Zemanek I had known; but its
content
staggered me: it was evident that he had completely abandoned his former views, and if he and I were now to frequent the same circles, in any conflict I would, like it or not, find myself taking his side. This was horrible, it was what I least expected, even though there was nothing miraculous about such a change in attitude; on the contrary, it was very common, many others had undergone it, the whole of society was undergoing it gradually. But it was precisely in Zemanek that I had not expected this change; he was petrified in my memory in the form in which I'd last seen him, and now I furiously denied him the right to be other than the man I'd known.

There are people who claim to love humanity, while others object that we can love only in the singular, that is, only individuals. I agree and add that what goes for love also goes for hate. Man, this being pining for equilibrium, balances the weight of the evil piled on his back with the weight of his hatred. But try directing your hatred at mere abstract principles, at injustice, fanaticism, cruelty, or, if you've managed to find the human principle itself hateful, then try hating mankind! Such hatreds are beyond human capacity, and so man, if he wishes to relieve his anger (aware as he is of its limited power) concentrates it on a single individual.

That is why I was staggered. It suddenly occurred to me that any minute now, Zemanek would make use of his metamorphosis (which he had been suspiciously prompt to demonstrate to me) to ask my forgiveness in its name. That is what seemed so horrible.

What would I tell him? How would I respond? How would I explain to him that I couldn't make peace with him? How would I explain that if I did I would immediately lose my inner balance? How would I explain that one of the arms of my internal scales would suddenly shoot upward? How would I explain that my hatred of him counterbalanced the weight of evil that had fallen on my youth? How would I explain that he embodied all the evils in my life? How would I explain to him that I
needed
to hate him?

8

Horses crammed their way into the narrow street. I saw the king from a few yards away.

He was sitting on his horse apart from the others. Two other boys on horseback, his pages, were at his side. I was confused. He had Vladimir's slightly stooped back. He was sitting motionless, almost indifferent. Is it he? Maybe. But it might just as well be someone else.

I worked my way closer to him. It would be impossible not to recognize him. Didn't I know by heart the way he held himself, his every gesture? I love him, and love has its own instincts!

Now I was standing right beside him. I could have called to him. That would have been so simple. But it would have been no use. The king must not speak.

Then the Ride swept on to the next house. Now I would know him! The horse's sudden motion would force him to move in some way that would betray him. As the horse stepped forward, the king did in fact straighten up slightly, but the movement gave me no indication of who was behind the veil. The garish ribbons across his face were hopelessly opaque.

9

The ride of the Kings had advanced past a few more houses, and we continued to follow behind while our conversation moved on to other topics: Miss Broz had shifted from Zemanek to herself and was holding forth on how she loved hitchhiking. She spoke about it with such emphasis (somewhat affected) that I could see at once that I was hearing the
manifesto of her generation.
Every generation has its own set of passions, loves, and interests, which it professes with a certain tenacity, to differentiate it from older generations and to confirm itself in its uniqueness. Submitting to a generation mentality (to this pride of the herd) has always repelled me. After Miss Broz had developed her provocative argument (I've now heard it at least fifty times from people her age) that all mankind is divided into those who give hitchhikers lifts (human people who love adventure) and those who don't (inhuman people who fear life), I jokingly called her a

"dogmatist of the hitch." She answered sharply that she was neither dogmatist nor revisionist nor sectarian nor deviationist, that those were all words of ours, that we had invented them, that they belonged to us, and that they were completely alien to them.

"Yes," said Zemanek, "they're different. Fortunately, they're different! Even their vocabulary is different. They don't care about our successes or our failures. You won't believe this, but on the university entrance exams these young people don't even know what the Moscow Trials were. Stalin is just a name to them. And imagine, most of them have no idea that there were political trials in Prague!"

"That's what seems so terrible to me," I said.

"It doesn't reflect well on their education. But for them there's liberation in it. They've simply not admitted our world into their consciousness. They've rejected it altogether."

"Blindness has given way to blindness."

"I wouldn't say that. They impress me. I admire them exactly because they're different.