Basic Law

by J Sydney Jones

  Kramer has to apply the brakes and swerve to avoid a couple of sodden cows that have wandered out onto the road. The cows do not even stop munching as his tires squeal around them.

  An hour later at Unterretzbach, the border guard waves him on, not bothering with even a passport examination. One look at the Austrian plates is enough; they’re desperate for foreign currency to shore up the sagging crown. Kramer pats the Walthers he’s carrying in each pocket of his oilskin. Thank God for currency problems, he thinks.

  At Jihlava, he hits the E14 freeway, heading almost due west for Prague. The road is one of the last of the old Soviet projects, and drives like it. The multitude of cracks in its surface makes a steady rhythm on his tires, almost lulling. The rain abates somewhat; the countryside to both sides of the four-lane freeway is lush, green, rolling hills with copses of linden and sycamore tucked into the folds. Some of the sweetest-­looking country in the world, Kramer has always thought. And for all of his life, save the past several years, it has been an occupied land. He expects to see Soviet troop transports; cannot escape the after-image of the Cold War.

  Prague has always been a black-and-white photograph for him. A beautiful old city of cobbled lanes and streets empty of traffic; of church spires and Gothic arcades. Somber and stately, but in no way depressing as so many of the former Eastern Bloc capitals are. But now Prague is most definitely in color. Technicolor. The baroque facades have been painted a rainbow of pastels; there are red-and-white Coca-Cola umbrellas and white plastic chairs and tables out on the Old Town’s main square, Staroměstské Náměstí, despite the biting cold. Even a few youthful foreigners gathered there with rows of empty beer bottles in front of them, laughing loudly. The rain has stopped, but these intrepid al fresco drinkers are bundled in bright red and yellow slickers or in the puffy Michelin Man down jackets of a generation earlier. Kramer is suddenly reminded of Amsterdam in the ’60s, of all the hips and proto-hips gathered there. The Levi brigade. These are the remnant of the thousands of young tourists who flocked to Prague directly after the fall of the Soviet Union, when the living was cheap and the city was still in black and white. But now prices have soared and civic pride wishes for the tourists to return home. The Czechs want their city back.

  Kramer has put his car in a subterranean car park at the edge of the Old Town, hoofing it under the Prasna Brana and down Celetná Ulice to the main square. He’s just in time for the tolling of the hour at the astronomical clock on the Stará Radnice. Christ and the Apostles show themselves, but the drinkers in the square do not notice. Death tolls the bell, but the tourists keep on drinking.

  He’s headed for Kaprova Ulice, just beyond Kafka’s birth house. The narrow, cobbled streets are packed with fiddlers, guitarists, even a fire breather. It’s like a carnival, but has the down side of a festival atmosphere, as well: the desperate revelry, panhandlers working the streets. One young, stringy-haired blonde girl comes up to Kramer.

  “Prosím. Please,” she says, a tiny dirty hand held palm up.

  He looks into her eyes, is about to tell her to wire her parents if she needs money, but then on impulse digs out some schillings from his pocket and lays them in her hand. She smiles at him and runs off.

  Moving on, Kramer hears a high, happy American voice behind him, “Did you see? He actually gave me money. Coo-ool.”

  Kramer shrugs and moves on toward house number 12. It’s been fixed up since he was here last: a fresh sand-blasting job to reveal honey-colored sandstone; the incised frog over the door—At the Sign of the Frog—has a light shining on it. Prague has discovered itself. Not such a big step from quaintness to kitsch.

  The courtyard is arcaded with ivy growing up the walls. Enclosed porches surround it, one on each of the three stories. Kramer crosses the courtyard to the huge doors of the old stalls and uses a wrought iron clapper to sound the wood. There is no response, and he uses the clapper again, this time louder. Finally, from inside comes a muffled sound, silence, and then a voice shouting, “Dále! Come in!”

  Kramer does. The half basement is as he remembers it: dark in the middle of the day, musty-smelling like a wine cellar, and brick lined. Jiří Vaslov is sitting at an enormous old desk under one of the street-level windows. His white hair is sticking straight up as if he just got out of bed. On the table near his bed alcove is the Gestetner mimeograph machine that Kramer arranged for him to get in the late ’70s. It’s the best cared for object in the whole place. An armchair with stuffing coming out of the back sits lopsided with a leg broken; clothes lay crumpled over a bookcase; old phonograph records out of their sleeves litter the floor in front of a stereo that must be thirty years old.

  Jiří Vaslov turns in his chair, squinting over the tops of half-frame reading glasses. He’s wearing a camel-hair smoking jacket over a purple turtleneck sweater, baggy gray woolen pants, and ancient house slippers with pointy toes. He could be a caricature out of a nineteenth-century painting: The Bookworm.

  “How you doing, Jiří?” Kramer says, coming down the three steps into the room. There are books everywhere and manuscript pages littering every surface.

  Vaslov gets up from his desk, smiling now.

  “Kramer! I thought you’d forgotten us now that we’re no longer news.”

  Vaslov is a thin, short man with a Roman nose and skin as white as paper. He rubs his hair bashfully, as if not knowing what to say. It is this continual rubbing that makes his hair stand up so oddly, Kramer now remembers. Vaseline, the other writers in the union used to call him. Vaslov put out some of the most widely read samizsdat (literary “magazines”) during the Soviet occupation, using the mimeograph enshrined by his bed. Except that back then, the duplicator would be hidden in an alcove in back of a wardrobe and only brought out for the printing late at night.

  They do not embrace; Vaslov is much too reserved for that, but the handshake is warm and welcoming.

  “This calls for a drink,” Vaslov says and goes to one of the bookshelves to fetch a bottle of plum brandy. He pours out two double shots in finely etched crystal shot glasses, and they toast each other. The liquor burns down Kramer’s throat, warming his stomach. He can use it, but feels suddenly light-headed. He still has not eaten today.

  “Sit, sit,” Vaslov says, taking a bundle of papers and some clothes off the lopsided armchair and tossing them into a corner. A cat is in the clothing, and spits as it lands on the floor. Kramer sits lightly in the chair and Vaslov draws up a straight-back one.

  “Good to see you, Kramer.”

  “You, too.” Kramer finishes the drink.

  “Another?”

  Kramer shakes his head. “I’ve still got work to do today.”

  “You’re on assignment? Good. I heard you weren’t writing so much anymore.”

  Kramer doesn’t want to talk about that; decides on the direct approach.

  “I need some information.”

  “As usual, I’ve got more questions than answers.”

  “This is an easy one. I’m looking for a publishing house here called something like Kareesia.”

  Vaslov finishes his drink and sets it down on the floor. The cat has come back now and sniffs at it.

  “You make me feel like a knowledgeable person, Kramer. Here is a question for which I have an answer. I imagine it is Keresya Publishers you’re looking for. They’ve got an office a couple blocks from here, near the Starý Židovský Hřbitov, the Old Jewish Cemetery along the river. But why them? A terrible bunch of reactionaries. The romance of the land, folktales of Bohemia, fancy picture books of village costumes. That sort of neo-nationalist pap is what they publish.”

  “I’m not interested in their list, Jiří , just one of their editors.”

  “Who?”

  “Maria Dalibor.”

  Vaslov grins. “Ah-ha. Now I get the lay of the land. I would like to bed her myself, but they say she only sleeps with books.
Save her, Kramer. Save her from that insufferable house she works at. They only took her on because she was a sort of icon. When the Bastille fell, there was our poor Maria, still incarcerated. They’ve got a lot of mileage out of her at Keresya, I can tell you that. Good weaponry for bashing the Left. You know her?”

  Kramer nods. “A long time ago.”

  “All the more reason then to save her from the Fascists. I’m sure she doesn’t know she’s being used. Much too ethereal for that is our Maria.” Jiří looks at the mimeograph machine gathering dust. “You know, I hate to say it, Kramer, but I rather miss the old days of repression. The Soviets made such good people to hate. Prague was a united city then; united against the common enemy. Now we only have each other. Examining credentials of what one did or did not do in 1968. Whether one tried to reform the system or tear it down. Terrific lot of right-wingers running around today posing as nationalist heroes. Prague isn’t what it was.”

  Kramer rises to go. “I’ve got to see her as soon as possible. You understand?”

  Vaslov stands, too, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Of course. Follow that story, Kramer. We writers are yesterday’s news. We made the country safe for Coca-Cola and Time magazine. Clever of us, wasn’t it?”

  Kramer follows Kaprova Ulice toward the Vltava river, smelling it before reaching it. The publishing house is in Náměstí Jana Palacha, a square named after Jan Palach, who set himself alight to protest the Soviet invasion in 1968. Appropriate for Maria to be working here, he thinks. Her publishing house has a fine old baroque facade with offices on every floor. Kramer goes up to editorial on the third and asks the young man at the desk for Maria Dalibor’s office. The guy wears his hair short and a white shirt with a string tie from a folk costume. The wall in back of him is covered with brightly colored book jackets. He doesn’t bother to call ahead, but directs Kramer down a corridor to the second door on the left. There are framed book jackets along the corridor as well, new carpeting on the parquet. Kramer comes to the door, knocks once lightly and a female voice from inside tells him, in Czech, to enter. He opens the door, and she is sitting in back of a modern desk of Scandinavian design wearing a green cardigan over a white blouse. Her hair is cut short and is graying; the skin of her face is as translucent as ever; the cheekbones high and fine. Her eyes smile at him.

  Then out the corner of his eye, half-hidden by the door opened inward, is a denim-covered leg dangling over a knee. The shoes are red Converse high-tops. Kramer opens the door completely to reveal Randall sitting in a low-slung leather armchair, smiling at him.

  “What took you so long, Sam? Maria and I have been waiting all morning.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “What are you doing here?” Kramer says to Randall.

  Maria gets up from her desk and moves around toward Kramer.

  “Aren’t you even going to greet me, Sam?”

  She holds out frail-looking arms to him.

  “Of course. Randall surprised me, is all.”

  Kramer meets Maria halfway around the desk and embraces her, keeping an eye on Randall who is still slouching in the armchair, grinning like a magician who’s just pulled the bunny out of the hat.

  There is nothing frail about Maria’s grip; her arms are strong and firm, and she pulls him into her front, not holding back the pelvis. Their bodies wrap together seamlessly for a moment, and Kramer smells a scent, subtle like early morning in a garden. He feels his body respond automatically to the embrace and kisses her hair. She holds him back from her suddenly, two hands on his shoulders squeezing. Red spots show at her cheeks, her mouth is partly open, eyes dilating.

  “Whoa!” Randall yelps. “Got to watch old Sammy. Gets you in the ropes, and he won’t let up.”

  She pulls her cardigan down primly, smiling to herself.

  “Sorry,” Kramer manages to mumble.

  She half shakes her head, pursing her lips. “Don’t be. It was nice.”

  “Maybe I should just leave,” Randall says, making as if to stand, but getting no further than hands on knees.

  “Good to see you again, Maria.” Kramer means it.

  She nods. All her movements are slight, as if anything more would be too showy.

  “You, too.”

  Kramer turns to Randall.

  “I repeat. What are you doing here? I thought you’d be in Switzerland by now, leading a group of geriatrics in the wonders of Kundalini.”

  Randall slumps back in the chair. “You hurt me, Sam. Know that? Making light of my teaching ability. Hatha, not Kundalini, for your information.”

  Maria smiles at Randall. “We were just talking about the time we all tripped in the Vienna woods. Remember, Sam? Randall brought all that lovely hash back from Istanbul, and we ate Suchard chocolate bars to get the aluminum foil to make pipes. We took our clothes off like innocent children and played in the golden leaves.”

  The memory comes back to Kramer in a flash. One not dredged up ever before. Yet it is lodged there, replaying itself as if no time has elapsed between then and now. It was early fall, a warm day with dappled sunlight coming through the birch trees, and they had skipped like children, kicking up leaves. Everyone except Reni. She sat and watched, Kramer now remembers. Watched as an anthropologist might do, or a visitor to the zoo.

  “I remember,” he says. “Apropos of what?”

  “Yoga.” Maria laughs out loud. “Don’t you remember? That’s when Randall sat cross-legged and did the om chant for us. And finally the wild boar came out of the underbrush, ready to mate with him.”

  Kramer and Maria laugh until tears come. Randall sits in his chair, scowling.

  “Very funny,” he finally says. “That wart hog could have caused me permanent psychosis, not to mention giving me a dose of porcine clap. But go ahead and laugh. I am here on Earth to amuse.”

  “Come on, Randall,” Maria says, holding her mouth with a delicate white hand to hide her laughter. She goes to his chair, leans down over him and kisses the top of his head. “We love you,” she says.

  It’s what the seven of them would say to each other. Kramer wonders who the “we” is now.

  Randall pulls her down onto his lap and tickles her. She shrieks and squeals, trying to get out of his grasp. A moment later, a knock comes at the door.

  “Maria?”

  She gets up from Randall’s lap, straightens her skirt, brushes back her hair with her fingers, and opens the door.

  It’s the young man from the reception desk. He looks into the room past Maria, suspicion in his eyes. “Excuse me,” he says in stilted English. “I heard …”

  “It’s okay, Pavel. Old friends.” She pats him on the shoulder and begins giggling again before getting the door closed. She turns to them, her back to the door, and sighs loudly.

  “God, it feels so good to laugh again. I don’t get much chance for it here.”

  “Maria,” Kramer begins, “we didn’t know what happened to you. I tried during the ’70s …”

  She holds her hand up, closes her eyes. “It’s over now, Sam. Let’s not talk about it. I know you cared. That you did what you could.”

  “But we’ve got to talk about it,” he says. Then he glances at Randall who is looking down at his hands folded in his lap.

  “Didn’t you tell her?” he says to Randall.

  He shakes his head, not looking up. “I was waiting for you.” Then Randall looks up, finds Kramer’s eyes and locks on him for a moment. “You were right, Sam. You’ve got to make a stand sometime.”

  “Tell me what?” Maria says.

  Kramer turns to her. “Maybe you’ve already heard. Reni is dead.”

  She puts her hand to her mouth again. “No.” This time when she shakes her head, it is violent enough to make her short hair sway back and forth. “I hadn’t heard. I’ve been so busy lately …”

  “And Gerhard
. Someone killed them both to keep them from telling a secret.”

  “Oh, Jesus!” She stands stunned at the door for a moment, then slides down it slowly, to sit hunched and blank-faced.

  “Nice work, Sam,” Randall says, getting up from the chair and rushing to her. Kramer is there, too, and they both help her to the armchair, sitting her down gently. Kramer runs his hand over her cheek.

  “Can I get you something? Water? Brandy?”

  She says nothing for a moment, her eyes focusing beyond them both, to the window of her office that gives off onto a bare plane tree in the courtyard of the building, its branches like a black tracery on the other side of the glass. Finally, she shakes her head at his suggestion.

  “It’s never over, is it? I mean, once the Soviets left, you would think the nightmare would be finished, wouldn’t you?”

  “I guess so,” Kramer says.

  She bites her lower lip, starts rocking in the chair. “But it never ends. Not even with death.”

  “Easy, Maria,” Randall says, putting an arm around her shoulders and scowling at Kramer.

  She sits rocking herself for several moments, then finally pulls her body upright and takes a deep breath. “She came to visit me a couple of months ago. Did you know that?”

  Kramer nods. “She mentioned it to Gerhard. How did she know where to find you?”

  Maria runs her hand through her fine hair. “She didn’t. I got in touch with her.”

  She looks frankly into Kramer’s eyes. He crouches at her side and takes her left hand in his. Randall is kneeling on the other side of the chair, his arm still around her shoulders.

  They look at each other momentarily across her.

  “Why?” Kramer says. “How?”

  “Oh, the how is easy enough. Fancy my surprise getting out of prison after all those years to discover one of us was famous. Even if at the end of a career. The newspapers were full of her defeat. But I waited. I didn’t want …”