Authors: Philip Roth
Bolotka occupies a dank room at the top of a bleak stairwell on a street of tenements near the outskirts of Prague. I visited him there earlier in the day. He reassures me, when he observes me looking sadly around, that I shouldn
’
t feel too bad about his standard of living—this was his hideaway from his wife long before his theater was disbanded
and he was forbidden to produce
his
“
decadent
”
revues. For a man of his predilections it really is the
best
place to live.
“
It excites young girls,
”
Bolotka
informs me,
“
to be fucked in squalor.
”
He is intrigued by my herringbone tweed suit and asks to try it on to see how it feels to be a rich American writer. He is a sloop-shouldered man, large and shambling, with a wide Mongol face, badly pitted skin, and razor-blade eyes, eyes like rifts in the bone of his skull, slitted green eyes whose manifesto is
“
You will jam nothing bogus into this brain.
”
He has a wife somewhere, even children; recently the wife
’
s arm was broken when she tried to prevent the police from entering their apartment to impound her absentee husband
’
s several thousand books.
“
Why does she care so much about you?
”
“
She doesn
’
t—she hates me. But she hates them more. Old married couples in Prague have something to hate now even more than each other.
”
A month earlier the police came to the door of Bolotka
’
s hole at the top of the stairwell to inform him that the country
’
s leading troublemakers were being given papers to leave. They would allow him forty-eight hours to get out.
“
I said to them,
‘
Why don
’
t
you
leave? That would amount to the same thing. I give
you
forty-eight hours.
’”
But would he
not
be better off in Paris, or across the border in Vienna, where he has a reputation as a theatrical innovator and could resume his career?
“
1 have sixteen girt friends in Prague,
”
he replies.
“
How can I leave?
”
I am handed his robe to keep myself warm while he undresses and gets into my suit.
“
You look even more like a gorilla,
”
I say, when he stands to model himself in my clothes.
“
And even in my disgraceful dressing gown,
”
he says,
“
you look like a happy, healthy, carefree impostor.
”
Bolotka
’
s story.
“
I was nineteen years old, I was a student at the university. I wanted like my father to be a lawyer. But after one year I decide I must quit and enroll at the School of Fine Arts. Of course I have first to go for an interview. This is 1950. Probably I would have to go to fifty interviews, but I only got to number one. I went in and they took out my
‘
record.
’
It was a foot thick. I said to them,
‘
How can it be a foot thick, I haven
’
t lived yet. I have had no life—how can you have all this information?
’
But they don
’
t explain. I sit there and
they look it over and they say I
cannot quit. The workers
’
money is being spent on my education. The workers have invested a year in my future as a lawyer. The workers have not made this investment so I can change my mind and decide to become a fine artist. They tell me that I cannot matriculate at the School of Fine Arts, or anywhere ever again, and so I said okay and went home. I didn
’
t care that much. It wasn
’
t so bad. I didn
’
t have to become a lawyer, I had some girl friends. I had my prick, I had books, and to talk to and to keep me company, ! had my childhood friend Blecha. Only they had him to talk with too. Blecha was planning then to be a famous poet and a famous novelist and a famous playwright. One night he got drunk and he admitted to me that he was spying on me. They knew he was an old friend and they knew that he wrote, and they knew he came to see me, so they hired him to spy on me and to write a report once a week. But he was a terrible writer. He is still a terrible writer. They told him that when they read his reports they could make no sense of them. They told him everything he wrote about me is unbelievable. So I said,
“
Blecha, don
’
t be depressed, let me see the reports— probably they are not as bad as they say. What do they know?
’
But they
were
terrible. He missed the point of everything I said, he got everything backwards about when I went where, and the writing was a disgrace. Blecha was afraid they were going to fire him—he was afraid they might even suspect him of playing some kind of trick, out of loyalty to me. And if that went into
his
record, he would be damaged for the rest of his life. Besides, all the time he should be spending on his poems and his stories and his plays, he was spending listening to me. He was getting nothing accomplished tor himself. He was full of sadness over this. He had thought he could just betray a few hours a day and otherwise get on with being National Artist, Artist of Merit, and winner of the State Award for Outstanding Work. Well, it was obvious what to do. I said,
‘
Blecha, I will follow myself for you. ! know what I do all day better than you, and
I
have nothing else to keep me busy. I will spy on myself and
I
will write it up, and you can submit it to them as your own. They will wonder how your rotten writing has improved overnight, but you just tell them you were sick. This way you won
’
t have anything damaging on your record, and
I
can be rid of your company, you shitface.
’
Blecha was thrilled. He gave me half of what they paid him and everything was fine—until they decided that he was such a good spy and such a good writer,
they promoted him. He was terrified. He came to me and said
I
had gotten him into this and so
I
had to help him. They were putting him now to spy on bigger troublemakers than me. They were even using his reports in the Ministry of Interior to teach new recruits. He said,
‘
You have the knack of it, Rudolf, with you it
’
s just a technique. I am too imaginative for this work. But if
I
say no to them now. it will go in my record and I will be damaged by it later on. I could be seriously damaged now, if they knew you had written the reports on yourself.
’
So this is how
I
made a bit of a living when
I
was young.
I
taught our celebrated Artist of Merit and winner of the State Award for Outstanding Work how to write in plain Czech and describe a little what life is like. It was not easy. The man could not describe a shoelace. He did not know the word for anything. And he saw nothing. I would say,
‘
But, Blecha, was the friend sad or happy, clumsy or graceful, did he smoke, did he listen mostly or did he talk? Blecha, how will you ever become a great writer if you are such a bad spy?
’
This made him angry with me. He did not like my insults. He said spying was sickening to him and caused him to have writer
’
s block. He said he could not use his creative talent while his spirit was being compromised like this. For me it was different. Yes, he had to tell me—it was different for me because I did not have high artistic ideals. I did not have any ideals. If I did
I
would not agree to spy on myself. I certainly would not take money for it. He had come to lose his respect for me. This is a sad irony to him, because when I left university, it was my integrity that meant so much to him and our friendship. Blecha told me this again recently. He was having lunch with Mr. Knap, another of our celebrated Artists of Merit and winner of the State Award for Outstanding Work, and secretary now of their Writers
’
Union. Blecha was quite drunk and always when he is quite drunk Blecha gets over-emotional and must tell you the truth. He came up to the table where I was having my lunch and he asked if everything is all right. He said he wished he could help an old friend in trouble, and then he whispered,
‘
Perhaps in a few months
’
time … but they do not like that you are so alienated, Rudolf. The phenomenon of alienation is not approved of from above. Still, for you I will do all that
I
can…
”
But then he sat suddenly down at the table and he said,
‘
But you must not go around Prague telling lies about me, Rudolf. Nobody believes you anyway. My books are everywhere. Schoolchildren read my poems, tens of thousands of people read my
novels, on TV they perform my plays. You only make yourself look irresponsible and bitter by telling that story. And, if I may say so, a little crazy.
’
So
I
said to him,
“
But, Blecha
, I
don
’
t tel
l
it. I have never told it to a soul.
’
And he said,
‘
Come now, my dear old friend—how then does everybody know
’
?
’
And so I said,
‘
Because their children read your poems, they themselves have read your novels, and when they tum on TV, they see your plays.
’
”
The
phone awakens me at quarter to eight.
“
This is your wife-to-be. Good morning. I am going to visit you.
I
am in the lobby of the hotel. ! am coming now to visit you in your room.
”
“
No, no.
I’ll
come down to you. It was to be lunch, not breakfast.
”
“
Why are you scared for me to visit you when
I
love you
’
?
”
asks Olga.
“
It
’
s not the best idea here. You know that.
”
“
I am coming up.
”
“
You
’
re going to get yourself in trouble.
”
“
Not me,
”
she says.
I
’
m still doing up my trousers when she is at the door, wearing a long suede coat that might have seen her through trench warfare, and a pair of tall leather boots that look as if she
’
d been farming in them. Against the worn, soiled animal skins, her white neck and white face appear dramatically vulnerable—you can see why people do things to her that she does not necessarily like: bedraggled, bold, and helpless, a deep ineradicable sexual helplessness such as once made bourgeois husbands so proud in the drawing room and so confident in bed.
Since I am frightened of everything, it is as well to go in one direction as the other,
Well, not only is she going, she
’
s gone: she is reckless desperation incarnate.
I let her in quickly and close the door.
“
Prudence isn
’
t your strong point.
”
“
This I have never heard. Why do you say this?
”
she asks.
I point to the brass chandelier suspended above the bed, a favored place, Sisovsky had already told me back in New York, for the installation of a bugging device.
“
In your room,
”
he warned me,
“
be careful about what you say. There are devices hidden everywhere. And on the phone it is best to say nothing. Don
’
t mention the manuscript to her on the phone.
”
She drops into a chair beside the window while I continue to dress.
“
You must understand,
”
she says loudly,
“
that I am not marrying you for your money. I am marrying you,
”
she continues. gesturing toward the light fixture,
“
because you tell me you love me at first sight, and because I believe this, and because at first sight I love you.
”
“
You haven
’
t been to sleep,
”
“
How can I sleep? I am thinking only of my love for you, and I am happy and sad ail at once. When I am thinking of our marriage and our children I do not want to sleep.
”
“
Let
’
s have breakfast somewhere. Lei
’
s get out of here.
”
“
First tell me you love me.
”
“
I love you.
”
“
Is this why you marry me? For love?
”
“
What other reason could there be?
”
“
Tell me what you love most about me.
”
“
Your sense of reality.
”
“
But you must not love me for my sense of reality, you must love me for myself. Tell me all the reasons you love me.
”
“
At breakfast.
”
“
No. Now. I cannot marry a man who I have only just met
”
—she is scribbling on a piece of paper as she speaks—
”
and risk my happiness by making the wrong choice. I must be sure. I owe it to myself. And to my aged parents.
”
She hands me the note and I read it.
You cannot trust Czech police to understand ANYTHING, even in Czech. You must speak CLEAR and SLOW and LOUD.
“
I love your wit,
”
I say.
“
My beauty?
”
“
I love your beauty.
”
“
My f
l
esh?
”
“
I love your flesh.
”
“
You love when we make love?
”
“
Indescribably.
”
Olga points to the chandelier.
“
What means
‘
indescribably,
’
darling?
”
“
More than words can say.
”
“
It is much better fucking than with the American girls.
”
“
It
’
s the best.
”
In the hotel elevator, as we ride down along with the uniformed operator (another police agent, according to Bolotka) and three Japanese early-risers, Olga asks,
“
Do
you fuck anybody yet in Czechoslovakia?
”
“
No, Olga.
I
haven
’
t. Though a few people in Czechoslovakia may yet fuck me.
”
“
How much is a room at this hotel?
”
“
I don
’
t know.
”
“
Of course. You
’
re so rich you don
’
t have to know. Do you know whv thev bug these big hotels, and always above the bed?
”
“
Why?
”
“
They listen in the rooms to the foreigners fucking. They want to hear how the women are coming in the different languages. Zuckerman, how are they coming in America? Teach me which words the American girls say.
”
In the lobby, the front-desk clerk moves out from behind the reception counter and crosses the lobby to meet us. Politely excusing himself to me, he addresses Olga in Czech.
“
Speak English!
”
she demands.
“
I want him to understand! I want him to hear this insult in English!
”
A stocky gray-haired man with formal manners and a heavy unsmiling face, the clerk is oblivious to her rage; he continues unemotionally in Czech.
“
What is it?
”
I ask her.
“
Tell him!
”
she shouts at the clerk.
“
Tell him what you want!
”
“
Sir, the lady must show her identity card. It is a regulation.
”
“
Why is it a regulation?
”
she demands.
“
Tell him!
”
“
Foreign guests must register with a passport. Czech citizens must show an identity card if they go up to the rooms to make a call.
”
“
Except if the Czech is a prostitute! Then she does not have to show anything but money! Here—I am a prostitute. Here is your fifty kroner—leave us in peace!
”
He turns away from the money she is sticking into his face,