Remembrance Day

by Brian Aldiss

  She was in luck this afternoon. While Milada got a seedy chain smoker, she was immediately picked up by a tough-looking fellow, little older than she was. He had pleasant curly hair of an almost golden tint, and an open freckled face with a snub nose she found amusing. He could have been a boxer. He spoke a funny kind of English, and said his name was Frank. They often gave false names.

  Ondrej paid him the usual compliments, and in fact he was quite a pleasure to be in bed with. Of course she knew the room would be bugged. So, presumably, did he. Foreigners were not so stupid as they used to be.

  He allowed her to shower afterwards, climbing into the shower to feel her under the spray. When they were drying themselves, he became chatty and asked her if she had ever heard of Ireland.

  ‘Of course. I’m not a fool.’ She was annoyed by the question. ‘It’s where Bob Geldof and George Bernard Shaw come from.’

  ‘Full marks. It’s a great place, Ireland.’

  ‘But not very important, I believe.’

  ‘Sure, you’re a bit of a cheeky little monkey!’

  ‘Did you ever hear of Samuel Coleridge?’

  ‘That’s not an Irish name.’

  She used his talc in a cloud, so that when Petr met her at six, he sniffed suspiciously.

  They had chosen as rendezvous a small bookshop on Apolinarska run by a friend of Petr’s. She saw immediately that he was anxious.

  ‘We’ll walk in the Botanic Gardens,’ he said. She agreed, not wishing to upset him, although the trees were still dripping from recent rain showers. They strolled among other strollers deep in conversation; here, one could speak without much fear of being overheard.

  ‘How’s our friend the hunchback?’ Ondrej asked. ‘Any progress?’

  ‘Not much. I showed you the latest sketches. Something could be trying to bite off his hump … A mail bin or something. That puts our friend in a dilemma. He wants the hump off his back. But will he survive if it is amputated?’

  She laughed. ‘Very subtle political thinking.’

  ‘You have to do something.’

  ‘Reminds me of that old riddle: “What stands on the corner of the square and doesn’t kick people?” Answer: “A Russian-made people-kicker”.’

  ‘I wonder what it looks like?’

  They paused by a pool where goldfish lazily circled. Petrik had a piece of stale bread roll in his pocket. When he threw the crumbs to the fish, they rose to the surface, seized a morsel, and darted away into the depths with a flick of their tails. Only momentarily did the small O of their mouths appear above the water.

  ‘They’re starving, you see.’

  ‘Nonsense, everyone feeds them. You’re too political, Petr! I’m going to treat you to a good feed tonight.’

  Instead of asking where the money had come from he said, ‘How was your Samuel Coleridge today?’

  After a while, he took her arm and said quietly, ‘Before we eat, I need you to come with me. I have made an appointment to see my cousin, Jaroslav Vacek. It would help if you accompany me.’

  ‘Your big party boss cousin …’

  ‘As boys we were very close. I looked after him when his parents disappeared. Now – well he’s, quote, one of our leading industrialists, unquote, and was recently elected a council member of the Scientific and Technical Council, or some rubbish like that. Of course we don’t have much to do with each other nowadays, but I’ll make a better impression if you’re with me. He won’t think I’m such a failure.’

  They both laughed. ‘What’s he going to do for you?’

  ‘I’ve got a problem, a letter. Jaroslav is not a nice guy, but maybe he likes me enough to help me out. Though I’m sure to have to do something for him in return.’

  ‘It’s not dangerous? My profession is not hero but student and coward.’ She turned her face up at him, pretending innocence.

  ‘We’ll be OK. It’s not like the old days, really. In the old days, those goldfish would have been eaten long ago. Besides, Jaroslav’ll like you. A bit of a womanizer. He speaks good English, I know, and makes lots of business trips abroad because he’s trusted. Maybe you can talk to him about Samuel Coleridge.’ He wrapped an arm around her.

  They walked in the direction of the Jiraskuv Bridge. Vacek lived in what Petrik called ‘Hollywood Prague’. Off one of the cobbled streets was an archway leading into an inner courtyard, defended by two great wooden doors, through which swagger coaches had once rattled. The entry phone on a side pillar was unostentatious. Petrik buzzed and a guard opened a small door in one of the large ones. They entered. In the courtyard, a big black Mercedes glittered under lamplight.

  Ancient stone steps led to the upper floors of the building, but the guard escorted them to the first floor in an elevator.

  Jaroslav Vacek opened the door to them, greeted them in a friendly way, and ushered them in. He shook Ondrej’s hand and bowed politely. Vacek was in his late thirties, but looked younger, probably because of a healthy tan. His sandy hair was oiled and brushed back. His general athletic appearance was reinforced by the well-cut track suit he was wearing; a towel was tucked in at the neck. As he led Petr and Ondrej to the living-room, he gestured deprecatingly at the exercise bike they passed.

  ‘I’m working out. Excuse me. I’ve just returned from an official visit to Semtin, where they are too hospitable.’ He lapsed into English for a moment. “Too utterly, utterly”, as the English say.’

  The room commanded a view of the Vltava. Ondrej went over to look out of the window while Petrik took in his cousin’s furnishings. The room was more than comfortable; its elaborate display of objects made him immediately uncomfortable. On the walls were modern abstract paintings, set between ikons and framed pages from illuminated liturgical calendars.

  ‘They’re cheap ones,’ Vacek said, with a smile and a dismissive wave of the hand, as his cousin stared at a golden ikon of the Virgin. ‘That’s to say, not from Russia but Macedonia in Jugoslavia. They’re not only cheaper than the treasures of Zagorsk, they’re a lot more cheerful as well. More to my taste. What may I do for you? I haven’t much time.’ He indicated that they should sit down.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you, cousin,’ Petrik said, immediately regretting that he had opened the subject apologetically. ‘I have received a letter … Well, it rather worries me. Do you know a man called Cihak, Lubomir Cihak?’

  ‘Can I see the letter? Oh, excuse me – Ondrej, what would you like to drink? I admire your green eyes, by the way.’

  ‘Cutty Sark whisky,’ she said without hesitation, turning from the window so that he might enjoy her eyes again.

  ‘I have some Glenfiddich. Will that do?’

  ‘Oh, sure – I’m only a student, you know.’

  ‘You must take a course in whisky some day.’ While he was speaking, he moved rapidly to a drinks cabinet, pouring three healthy measures of whisky while Petrik brought the crumpled letter from his hip pocket.

  When they were settled, Vacek read out the letter from the Secretary of the Film Academy concerning Petrik’s film.

  He dangled the letter in one hand. ‘Sounds like good news.’

  ‘On the surface.’

  ‘God, you people are so miserable. You’re so used to being trodden on, you want to go on being trodden on for ever. What’s the matter with you, Petr? Afraid of ending up in Terejin, like some other pals we could mention? Here’s someone with a bit of clout and he wants to show your film – just the sort of thing you’ve been rabbiting on about since you were a kid. You’re in luck. Why hesitate? It isn’t that Sewers of Time is such a fucking masterpiece, is it?’

  Ondrej gave Vacek one of her piercing looks. ‘My generation holds Sewers in great esteem, on a par with Forman and Menzel’s work.’

  ‘Yes – but have you ever seen it?’ He laughed.

  ‘She’s not seen it,’ Petrik said quickly.

  Vacek regarded them both in turn, as if trying to decide which of them was lying to him, then folded his arms and turned
his back on them.

  Before he spoke again, he let silence thicken in the room. The sun broke through cloud, outlining the distant shoulder of Hradcany almost in silhouette, as it lit one of the ikons in the room with additional gold.

  Vacek lowered his voice to make it flat and uncompromising. ‘You’re a bit of a bad lot, Petr. I told you a year ago to stay away from me. You do my reputation no good.’

  Petrik stood up and spoke formally. ‘You must understand my position, Jaroslav, please. I haven’t been popular around here because I don’t conform, and it’s hard for me to see what’s made these people change their minds.’ He paused, confronted by the unsympathetic expanse of Vacek’s back.

  His cousin swung round abruptly. ‘“These people”? Who’re you talking about?’

  Remembering that tone of voice of old, Petrik spoke forcefully. ‘Husak isn’t dead or we’d have heard. This man Cihak is one of Husak’s hardliners, isn’t he? There’s still a ban on Kafka. So why this letter to me? I just think the whole thing is fishy. I hoped you could advise me. It can’t be they really want to show my film, can it?’

  Vacek’s face was unyielding. He drank his whisky. ‘Why should they want to show your film? Ask yourself that first of all. It’s long out of date in technique et cetera. No, I can tell you what’s happening, though I wonder you can’t see it for yourself. How some people survive in the rat race I’ll never know. But first, you must promise to do me a favour in return.’

  ‘What have I got to do? Come on, cousin Jaroslav, you needn’t be like this. We were friends once. OK, I was in jail and got beaten up, but that’s nothing in our socialist paradise, is it?’

  Ignoring him, Jaroslav turned to the woman. ‘Maybe you’d like to do a journey with Petr? I thought maybe a trip to West Germany Bundesrepublik for a few days?’

  ‘You’ll have to tell Petr about it, not me,’ Ondrej said. She had folded her arms and sat on the sofa with her long legs crossed at the ankle, plainly disliking this whole conversation, refusing to do more than sip the malt whisky. Petrik thought as he glanced at her how thin and nervous she looked.

  ‘As you wish, I don’t care.’ Vacek shrugged. ‘Here’s what you could do for me.’

  He perched on the padded arm of a chair, clutching his glass. He explained that, on behalf of his company, he was in negotiation with a Western businessman whom he did not trust; the people behind him were a trifle shady. The line of business, too, was confidential. He wanted to see that this man, who was leaving Prague at the end of the week, got out of the country without making any other contacts. He wanted him watched. So Jaroslav needed to arrange that he had an escort all the way to the frontier. The businessman was travelling by train to West Germany. It would look entirely natural if another couple, a man and woman, just happened to be with him in the same compartment. ‘And no one could be suspicious of a pair like you,’ he said, smiling.

  ‘What do we have to do?’

  ‘See he doesn’t get off the train. Simple enough.’

  The question of money, visas, passports for them could be easily arranged. He would have them all ready by Friday. If they did this for him, they could part with the businessman once they were through the frontier, and spend three days in the West before catching an express back to Prague.

  Petrik looked at Ondrej Korinkova. He could see immediately how she felt about the opportunity. She had shifted her position and was regarding Vacek attentively, looking at him more favourably.

  ‘What’s the catch? Who is this businessman we’ll be with?’

  ‘He’s harmless, pretty well. He’s a front man for a revolutionary force in his own lousy country. He likes money, he gets paid. The history of the world.’

  ‘What’s he buying from you?’

  ‘Never mind that. Will you do it? There’s nothing to it, no danger. You just have to speak English.’ He pronounced the latter phrase in English, with mockery.

  ‘Why us?’

  Vacek sighed, as if his patience was running out. He glanced ostentatiously at his wristwatch. ‘You’ve come along at a convenient moment. Your appearance will not make him suspicious; the sight of Ondrej and her green eyes will please him. In return, I’ll do something for you. Now, don’t bugger about with me – is it yes or no?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ondrej. ‘We’ll go.’

  Without waiting for Petrik’s response, as if he took that for granted, Vacek said, ‘Now, as to this apparatchik Lubomir Cihak. He is, as you rightly say, a hardliner. Also quite intelligent, in case that surprises you. Sensitive to the political atmosphere like a human barometer …

  ‘Our friends and masters in the Kremlin are not what they were in the days of Josef Stalin, or even Leonid Brezhnev. Maybe because the Soviet economy is about to break down – so well-placed colleagues tell me. Of course, they’ve been saying that for years … at least. Their new man, Comrade Gorbachev, is singing a different tune, The Dubček Blues. It makes people uneasy, particularly those who were happy with the old tune. They don’t want destabilization, which appears to be what Gorbachev is about. You understand what I’m saying?

  ‘Unsettling things are happening in Soviet society. The winds of this new creed of glasnost and perestroika are blowing round Russia and elsewhere, the Baltic states in particular. I was there last month. Gorbachev is rocking a pretty stable boat. There’s not much reason to believe that the unrest will spread here, nevertheless ripples are already going out. So some clever men are anxious to secure their futures, to invest in life insurance by way of a little harmless liberalization.’

  ‘You don’t mean—’ Petrik began, but his cousin silenced him.

  ‘Shut up while I’m lecturing you. I’ve better things to do with my time, you know. Let’s say that Cihak is such a man. Cihak’s connected, however tenuously, with the arts, and the arts are always a weak point.

  ‘So one day he decides while shaving to make some small gesture or gestures which could count greatly in his favour if the wind started to blow from a different direction. Like, say, digging up from the archives a banned film which he knows will cause few ripples, and letting it be shown on limited circuit – maybe in Bratislava or Brno …’

  He burst into harsh laughter. ‘Well, I need explain no more. Cihak’s letter to you is no trap. His plans for his future create your golden opportunity.’

  ‘There you are!’ cried Ondrej, clapping her hands. In excitement, she swung her artificially coloured hair about so that it lashed her cheeks. ‘It’s your golden opportunity, Petr. Thank you so much, Jaroslav.’

  Jaroslav gave her a calculating look. ‘Of course, I could be lying.’

  Petrik was irritated by her giving thanks to his cousin when there was nothing for which to thank him. Jaroslav had always wanted his pound of flesh, and something more if he could get it. Nor did he like the smiles Ondrej was now giving his cousin, though the latter appeared to ignore the warmth coming from that quarter.

  Gazing at the ceiling as if finding inspiration there – it was one of the most immaculate ceilings in Prague – Jaroslav continued to dispense advice to his cousin. ‘Play into Cihak’s hands. Of course let him show your lousy movie. You’ll be rehabilitated … Of course, none of this will happen if you fail to return from Germany after the weekend.’

  Again he folded his arms and turned his back on Petrik. The latter studied his cousin’s neck. In its fashion, it gave away more of Vacek’s character than his face did; this was a ruthless neck, evasive and worldly.

  He rose to his feet, setting down his glass, and said to the neck, ‘So it’s settled then? It may surprise you, but I would like my movie shown, even in Brno. So we’ll do what you ask. At what time do you want us to come back here on Friday?’

  Vacek turned, arms still folded. ‘I don’t want you to come back here at all. There has to be no more association between us. On Friday at ten A.M., be at the Hlavni Nadrazi, the news-stand by No. 1 Platform. A man will meet you there and give you all the information – document
s, money – you need. Is that clear? You’ll be prepared to travel.

  ‘Meanwhile, I will get a message to Cihak, expressing my support for the release of Sewers of Time. He’ll know my name.’

  Smiling, he made a dismissive gesture and rose to his feet. As Ondrej and Petr moved towards the door, the latter remarked that he hoped that they would be doing nothing illegal.

  ‘The state itself operates on illegality. It could not continue otherwise. That illegality is a defence against the crimes of the West. Many of our dealings with the West are “illegal”, according to the statutes, because we have a blocked currency. Therefore illegality is itself legal. You must have discovered that for yourself, cousin, when they threw you in the slammer.’

  This he said absent-mindedly, as if it were something he had learned. Ondrej held out a thin hand to him. Taking it, he said, in an altered tone, looking intently at her, ‘I see Petr wishes to leave. You stay behind, and I will advise you on some shopping that a lady might do in Nuremberg.’

  ‘She’s coming with me,’ Petrik said, in sudden anger, grasping Ondrej’s sleeve and dragging her from the room. She went without objection, not resisting him.

  ‘As you please,’ said Vacek, unruffled. ‘However, since you are so unsure of yourself, Petr, I shall give you in advance a photograph of the Western businessman you will be travelling with. You can study his features at your leisure.’