Necessary Errors: A Novel

by Caleb Crain

  “Oh, if you don’t want to tell us,” said Annie. “We are eating, and I’d rather not hear a story like the last one.”

  “Is it that bad?” Jacob asked.

  “It is not so bad, in that way,” Kaspar hazarded.

  “Please tell us. I’m curious now. You’re tough enough,” Jacob said to Annie.

  “Whatever I am, I am not ‘tough,’ thank you.”

  “Don’t be mad.”

  “I’m not ‘mad,’ either,” she muttered. She studied her plate.

  Kaspar delayed a moment more, as if trying to find the most polite way to put it. Just before he spoke, Jacob realized that he knew what Kaspar was going to say. “They sell themselves.”

  How ugly he is, thought Jacob. What a piglike face he has.

  “What do you mean?”

  “For deutschmarks.”

  “You tell such stories,” Annie said, looking up and staring at Kaspar fixedly, as if she were making an effort not to glance at Jacob.

  “My friends worry,” Kaspar said. “They see it, they say. They are older.”

  It’s just his tendency to exaggerate, Jacob said to himself. But it was difficult for him to contradict Kaspar without exposing himself. “That seems unlike the Czechs,” he risked.

  “How unlike them?” Kaspar countered, happy for a debate. “Or rather, how is it more unlike them than unlike any other nation?”

  “They’re so proud,” said Jacob.

  “Yes, they are, it is true,” Kaspar conceded.

  “There are women who sell themselves at the western border crossings,” Henry said. “To the truckers. No one is sure what to do about it. None of the dissidents wants to take a moral position on anything sexual.”

  “Why not?” Jacob asked. He didn’t really want to hear any more, but he didn’t want to seem to have been thrown.

  “I don’t think they’re comfortable with the idea, philosophically,” Henry answered. “They’re rather famous for respecting their marriage vows more in spirit than by the letter. Havel in particular.”

  “You wouldn’t know it to look at him, would you,” Thom said. “With that little moustache.”

  “It’s the use you put it to,” Henry answered cheerfully.

  They insisted on washing all the dishes, pots, and pans before they left. Jacob thanked them until he felt silly doing it. Once in bed, he fell asleep after only a few paragraphs of Stendhal, and in the middle of the night, he woke to the sound of rain, an old habit, a legacy of childhood, pointless now that he no longer had a bicycle or a dog that he needed to be sure were inside and dry. He recognized, however, by the clarity with which he remembered the bicycle and dog and by the dryness of his sheets, that his nights of fever were finally behind him.

  * * *

  Although Jacob didn’t believe Kaspar’s rumor, he found the next day that he wanted to see T-Club again with his own eyes. The wish seemed to him a little ridiculous, like a miser’s compulsion to open his strongbox to reassure himself of his treasure.

  It was a Friday night. Ivan gave Jacob a half nod to signal that he had seen Jacob arrive, and it raised Jacob’s hopes. But then he seemed to put Jacob entirely out of mind. Since the improvement in Jacob’s Czech, Ivan no longer yelled at Jacob in German. He had adopted the simpler tactic of affecting not to hear him. Between the arrivals of more-favored guests, the doorman stood lost in thought, his arms folded over his belly, his ass resting against the half door of the wardrobe, oblivious to Jacob’s occasional questions and to the bar’s disco. His eyes were sunk deep out of sight, as if he had somehow retracted the living part of himself, like a hermit crab drawn into its shell. He didn’t pare his nails, comb his hair, or count his money; there was no sign that it cost him anything to keep Jacob waiting.

  Jacob was too agitated to read. He tried to settle himself into a patience that matched the doorman’s but could only manage it for a few minutes at a time and always lapsed into watching Ivan for a sign. The black vertical bars of the entrance grille and the smooth, dark concrete of the floor made him think of a jail, and then the artificial vines made him think of a zoo. A cheap zoo. It was absurd to want so badly to get into such a place.

  —Please, Jacob said. —Please.

  Ivan met the appeal with a look of disgust and admitted him. Jacob had waited more than an hour. He told himself he didn’t care what a doorman thought of his willingness to beg.

  Once inside, his eyes adjusted slowly. That night, the dance floor was striped with blue and purple lights, which flashed in a lazy rhythm independent of the music, and a few teenagers danced among them industriously, knifing and swaying in high-waisted pants and pajama-like shirts. At the surrounding tables, darker, sat men in their twenties in faded denim jackets, and in the outer belt, near Jacob, stood older men in still quieter clothes—the Czechs pale-skinned, the Germans pink. Jacob ordered a beer from the balding waiter with large glasses, the kind one, whose name was Pavel. Ota had introduced Jacob to him a month ago, explaining that everyone in the bar forgave Pavel for not being gay. The affection implied by the comment had seemed to embarrass the waiter at the time. Pavel did not now show that he remembered the introduction, but he exchanged Jacob’s money for a beer with his usual air of gawky good intention. —Thanks, Jacob said.

  —There is no cause for it, the waiter answered.

  There was nothing new. The loners held themselves with the same shuffling alertness. Those with friends still kept their chatter loud for the benefit of those who might want to overhear, still directed one another’s stares by nudges, and occasionally gave a girlish scream.

  One came from Ota. He was at his usual table in the rear, wearing a thin wool sweater. It was robin’s egg blue, with a black-and-tan argyle pattern covering the chest but not the arms. His curls were waxed with gel and teased higher than usual. As Jacob approached, he saw that Ota was not wearing a T-shirt and that the scratch of the sweater had raised the skin of his neck and cheeks to an irritable and prickly red. The fabric held him so tightly that the outlines of his collarbones and almost his ribs were visible as he turned his head to greet Jacob.

  “My prince has come,” Ota said. His audience laughed. “Is that correct?”

  “The English is correct,” Jacob answered.

  —But you are not my prince, Ota sighed in Czech, taking one of Jacob’s hands in both of his. —It is really a pity.

  —You are laughing at me.

  —But through tears, Kuba.

  Ota named for Jacob the young men at his table. Two were familiar; two, new. One of the new ones, who had the dark coloring of a gypsy, gave Jacob a smile of hungry interest. His hair was long, worn in the early Beatles bowl cut that was becoming fashionable. There was also an older man, a German in a loosened tie. He had a small, prim moustache.

  Ota said that the German was a distinguished guest. —But here we have the American ambassador to the Czechoslovak Federal Republic, Ota continued, by way of introducing Jacob. —Shirley Templová! As you see, she is no longer blonde, unfortunately. But she is woman, now.

  —I thank you, Jacob said, bowing slightly.

  —In fact he is named Kuba, Ota amended. —Like Fidel, who is not a blond either.

  “Ahoj,” Jacob saluted the group. The one young man was watching so closely that Jacob felt shy. The German, on the other hand, did not seem to recognize the greeting; either he understood no Czech or he had no interest in Jacob and did not care if he showed it. —But you are a blond, Jacob returned to Ota, because he guessed that Ota was vain on this point tonight.

  —Is it not pretty? Ota asked. The gel drew his curls into such tight circlets that his scalp showed clearly beneath them. The curls seemed to lie on his head like something separate, like a necklace laid in a mass on a dresser. They were an empty, pure color, like clean, dry sand.

  —Very much so, Jacob agreed.

  “Another hit song from the United States,” the DJ announced, interrupting all conversations, in a singsong English he mus
t have learned from recordings. He continued in singsong Czech, a strange thing to hear. He spoke too quickly for Jacob to follow, but what he said made Ota and his friends laugh.

  “Sakra,” Ota swore.

  —What did he say? asked Jacob.

  “Nothing, nothing,” Ota answered in English, as if to insist on the language barrier. “It was something in Czech.”

  —I know that, but what did he say?

  —Look at how he is staring at us, Ota remarked of the acolyte across the table who seemed interested in Jacob.

  —What? this young man responded.

  —What? Ota mocked him. —I am quite good to you, he told the young man.

  It seemed to please the young man to be told this, and his eyes shifted between Ota and Jacob.

  —What did the DJ say? Jacob repeated.

  —But do not be dull. It was a silliness. He said that the song was from America, and that we all want to have many ties of international brotherhood.

  —As formerly with Russia?

  —He did not say that, but as you wish.

  —But wasn’t it a joke?

  —No, it wasn’t. And for that reason we laughed. Be very pretty, Kuba, and buy me one whiskey. Here you have money.

  —Keep your money, I will buy it, Jacob offered.

  —Are you sure? It costs twenty-seven crowns.

  —That is expensive, Jacob admitted, and took Ota’s money after all.

  —So I thought.

  The German, seeing the money passed, added money of his own to the table, and indicated by pantomime that he, too, wanted a whiskey and that he would pay for both his and Ota’s. —Is it possible to pay with deutschmarks here? Jacob asked, hesitating to pick up the German bills.

  —Of course, Ota said. —Here as everywhere.

  The press of men at the bar was thick, but Jacob was approached by Pavel before he got far into it. It seemed crass to pay with foreign currency, but Pavel showed no surprise. To confirm the order, Pavel told him the name of the American whiskey the bar served. Before he could return, Ota appeared at Jacob’s elbow.

  —The whiskeys are coming, Jacob assured him.

  “I will wait with you,” Ota said in English. “I have question. I have a question, excuse me. Do you like George?”

  “George?”

  “. The pretty one. The dark one.”

  “Oh. He’s very handsome.”

  “Do you want him? He is wishing for you, but you must say now.”

  “Why now?”

  “You must,” Ota said with simple impatience. “He is, how to say, like a fruit.”

  “Ripe.”

  “Yes, he is ripe.”

  “I don’t know,” Jacob said, deliberating.

  “As you like it,” Ota answered. The indifference in his voice seemed unfeigned; it was only as a favor to the young man that he had asked.

  “I wasn’t really looking, tonight,” Jacob continued, though Ota was hardly listening. There was an attraction, and Jacob was young enough that it was little trouble to make up the difference between his wishes and an opportunity. But he wasn’t sure.

  Ota circled back to his table, and Jacob continued to worry the question alone. It was a relief when Pavel brought the whiskeys.

  The negotiations with himself turned out to be pointless. At Ota’s table, he found the young man kissing the German, who bent over the seated youth from behind and slipped a hand between the buttons of his shirt. When the kiss ended, the youth’s eyes followed the German’s departing lips with a false look of adoration and then passed to the whiskeys that Jacob was setting on the table before him. Ota took one. The youth took the other, and the German did not resent the appropriation. Perhaps the German had all along intended to buy it for the boy.

  “Schuss,” said the boy, raising his glass to Ota. He made no effort to meet Jacob’s eyes.

  The German took out his pocketbook and gestured to Jacob to buy a whiskey to replace the one the boy was drinking.

  “Get it yourself,” Jacob said in English.

  Ota intercepted the cash and passed it to another of his followers. Jacob sat glaring. It was only his vanity, at first, that was injured. The German was so plain, dry, and small. The German had a complacency of manner—was that the attraction? To Jacob it was even more disgusting than his looks. The man seemed to consider it natural that the youth had chosen him. He seemed in fact ignorant that any other choice had been possible; he was as perfectly indifferent to Jacob as Ivan had been half an hour before.

  The boy sent to the bar by Ota, a blond—his name was Milo, Jacob remembered—returned with the German’s new whiskey. The German stroked the boy’s hand as he took it. The boy flinched and a few drops spilled in the transfer; the German took no notice. And in trying to understand this interaction, Jacob assembled a new picture of what he was looking at. You fucking idiot, he said to himself.

  —Ota, may I talk with you?

  —Gladly.

  —We two apart, Jacob specified.

  —With you, of course.

  They took a table at the edge of the room, where the shadows seemed to make an arcade. The men who were seated nearby, the sort who came to T-Club primarily to drink, did them the courtesy of pretending not to take an interest.

  It was difficult to begin. Jacob felt he had been treated like a child. Ota sat expectantly forward and seemed to be trying to shade with heavy lids the brightness of his eyes. —You must pardon, Jacob said, more gently than he intended. —I do not know how to ask fittingly.

  —That isn’t a bother, Ota replied. His eyes stayed on Jacob’s, while the rest of him shifted in the unaccustomed chair, and then his eyes too wavered.

  —Are you a whore, Ota? Jacob asked. He hadn’t been able to think of a politer word.

  Ota set down his whiskey and covered his face with his hands. The spindly fingers came together like slats of wood fitted to one another and made a blind. Jacob looked down into his drink.

  “You must understand,” Ota said, choosing to speak in English; perhaps it felt less real to him. “It is a good time to know languages.”

  “I see.” Jacob felt blood rising into his face.

  “If you say hello, if you smile.”

  “I see.”

  “Ach, Kuba. You look, you seem to say—.” His voice cracked like a boy’s, and he started gasping. “When you first come, I think so many things. I think, we shall be friends, Jacob and I.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Jacob, alarmed.

  “No, no. Is all right.” He stopped himself. “It will not be. That is all.” He pushed at his eyes with his thin fingers. “It is only that I think that it will go one way, and it goes all the time another.”

  —But why this, Ota? he asked in Czech. —Why did you—?

  —You do not understand. It is so much money. It is only money, but there is so much. We are only boys, Kuba.

  Jacob nodded. He found that he wanted to hear that it was out of Ota’s power.

  —My father, he does not make so much in one month. He does not speak to me, he is shit, and in one hour, I…He hates me anyway. So then why not?

  While making this speech, Ota sank back gradually in his chair, until he regarded Jacob from a posture of sullen challenge. In the course of a few sentences Jacob seemed to have changed in Ota’s eyes from a fairy prince into a disapproving father.

  —But don’t be angry, Ota continued, as if what he saw in Jacob were changing again.

  It occurred to Jacob that his hand on Ota’s might console him, but he could not bring himself to place it there. —I’m not angry, Jacob said. —I’m only sorry.

  They remained in place, and Ota’s grief and protests rose and fell for a while, like a patient whose painkiller is slow to take effect. It began to seem to be a performance.

  —Now you will never like me, Ota murmured. He seemed to be both in earnest and play-acting.

  —Ota, Ota, Jacob said. Ota didn’t seem to recognize that he had given anything up.<
br />
  —But tell me, Jacob resumed. —You also arrange?

  —That is only for friends, Ota said quickly.

  —I understand, Jacob said, but he no longer knew whether he believed him. —And tell me, Jacob continued. —Because now I must know everything.

  —And I will tell you everything.

  —Why did Ivan keep me out?

  —He wanted, for you to pay him.

  —But I didn’t pay, and nevertheless then for a while he let me in.

  —I don’t know. You never spent any dollars, and you were with us so often, maybe he thought, that you were trying to earn some. But you never paid him for that, either.

  —I confused him.

  Ota shrugged. —He is an old Communist. He only understands money. Then, as if recalled by the mention of Ivan to the thought of what he owed to this world, he added: —But he’s not so bad. It’s his system.

  —Not that, Jacob said. —Don’t tell me, that he’s not so bad.

  —As you wish, Ota said. With his handkerchief he began to repair his appearance. —I am feeble, he reproached himself.

  —I still have your cassette, Jacob said.

  —It’s not a hurry.

  —I must return it. It’s already a month.

  —Bring it to T-Club the next time.

  —No, elsewhere, Jacob said. —Of this place I have had enough.

  Ota laughed. —I too, I too.

  They made an appointment to meet at two the next afternoon in a Wenceslas snack bar, which, Jacob discovered when he got home, was described in his gay travel guide as a good spot to pick up hustlers. The next day Jacob waited there an hour. Under glass in a long case were two plates of topinky—appetizer toasts—stale and yellow. Jacob ordered a coffee but it was too sour to drink, even with sugar. Ota did not show up, and Jacob never saw him again.

  * * *

  He allowed himself a certain blankness in his thoughts. Ota had only spoken about himself, after all. Nonetheless, on Sunday morning, while a low fog was haunting the streets, Jacob walked to the phone booth beside the pub to call Luboš.

  He took off one glove to dial the number and then with his bare hand touched one of the booth’s few uncracked panes of glass and watched a mist appear between his fingers. The spots of mist weakened and erased themselves when he took his hand away.