Then it was as if this charming fellow had suddenly remembered that the last time he spoke with the minister, he mentioned that perhaps their offices could accommodate my passport request. “That wasn’t right. In fact it was downright wrong. We must support our artists — even if they can be annoying at times. You know what I mean; don’t take it personally. You see, our people downstairs like to demonstrate their vigilance, but they overdo it. Mr. Klíma, if you ever have the feeling you’re being harassed, give me a call and I’ll look into it. Here,” he added almost ceremoniously, “is my card with my direct number. I don’t give this to just anyone. You see how much I trust you.” Then he got up and walked over to me; I was afraid he was going to hug and kiss me goodbye, but he said, “And could I have your number in case I want to get in touch?” (As if he wasn’t fully aware that my telephone hadn’t been working for two months.) I said that my telephone had apparently been disconnected.
“Really?” He looked surprised. “A breakdown?”
“That’s what they tell me. They say it can’t be fixed.”
“Odd.” He feigned astonishment. “You see how people work in this country. They don’t want to go to work, so they say it can’t be fixed. Something should be done about this. If you want, I’ve got acquaintances in communications; I can press them on it.”
It was a farce — the person who probably had my telephone disconnected in the first place, and whose power and responsibilities were certainly more extensive than seeing that my telephone be reconnected, was now pretending to be someone who availed himself of acquaintances at the switchboard. I merely thanked him and said that I found it quite pleasant not to have the telephone bothering me when I was trying to work.
Then my official, who had apparently been waiting for me in the other room with the secretary, escorted me out of the building.
Outside, I fondled the card in my pocket. No, it wasn’t a dream. I should have tossed it into the garbage — none of my friends carried around the business card of a secret police colonel.
About a week later, a uniformed officer rang our door with a summons to appear at the district department of State Security. I was to bring my car.
I objected that my car had been inspected less than a month ago, and although they had taken my inspection certificate, I had had the supposed defect repaired, and it was returned to me.
He hesitated for a moment but then said that my car wasn’t to be inspected. “In Tábor a man was run over by a blue Zhiguli, and the perpetrator fled the scene.”
I told him I hadn’t been in Tábor for several years. He replied that if I did not report within two hours, I would be brought in.
I was alarmed by the thought of trying to prove I hadn’t been in Tábor at a certain time on a certain day: They could simply claim to have found dried blood on the hood and accuse me of killing a pedestrian.
I remembered the colonel’s card and his vow to protect me from needless harassment by overeager police officers.
After thinking it over a moment, I dialed his number and was indeed connected with him at once. I told him about the summons concerning the auto incident between a blue Zhiguli and a pedestrian in Tábor, where I hadn’t been for several years.
“You see?” he said. “There you go. Instead of trying to discover where you were, they’re harassing you. Don’t go anywhere, I’ll take care of it.”
I thanked him and hung up.
Then I realized he hadn’t even asked where he was supposed to take care of it, and he immediately believed my assertion that I hadn’t been in Tábor. Why? I was starting to have my suspicions.
After another week, a young man appeared at our door and refused my invitation to come in. He explained he was only a messenger. When he saw my surprise (at first I thought this was a messenger from Jürgen), he added that he had a message from the colonel; he would like to get together.
I asked him if this was a summons.
“No, of course not,” he said. “There isn’t to be any interrogation. The colonel just wants to talk to you and was hoping you might have found one of your manuscripts at home.”
I asked him when I should show up.
“The colonel says it’s completely up to you. He’ll find the time.”
I didn’t know what to do.
“And where should I go?”
“The colonel asks that you come see him at his office. He doesn’t think anywhere else would suit you.”
It was Monday. To put off the meeting as long as possible, I suggested Friday.
“Certainly,” answered the messenger. “At what time?”
This ostentatious accommodation strengthened my desire to confirm my suspicions. At the same time, I kept telling myself, Don’t get involved in any games with them. They are stronger and, more important, they have no scruples. But why was the colonel trying to engage me?
I suggested eleven o’clock.
On Friday I pulled from the drawer my manuscript of A Summer Affair, which had come out in several editions abroad and would show the colonel there was nothing seditious in a book that had been banned from publication in Czechoslovakia. When a person decides to do something stupid, he can usually find a reason to justify it to himself.
At eleven o’clock, I presented myself at Bartolomějská Street.
The same official met me at the porter’s lodge and led me to the same office, where I was greeted by the colonel. He offered me wine, coffee, tea, or mineral water. I refused everything, and the secretary brought me a bottle of mineral water.
The colonel invited me to have a seat and began by noting that the summer holidays were approaching. He himself hadn’t been on vacation for several years and asked if I was planning to go anywhere. He promptly corrected himself and said he didn’t want this to seem like an interrogation, then he suggested it was best to spend the summer near the water, for example at Lake Balaton. The Lipno Dam was also nice. He mentioned his company cottage not far from Jevany and reported with excitement that according to meteorologists, the air was supposed to be better there than in the Giant Mountains because the currents above their cottage bring air all the way from the Alps. He asked if everything was fine with me. When I replied that it was, he said he was glad to hear it. Then he asked if I had brought any of my books.
I pulled Summer Affair from my briefcase. He seemed surprised and thanked me profusely. He was very much looking forward to reading the manuscript and said that, of course, he would return it when he was done. “Perhaps you need it,” he added, “to send to Mr. Jürgen.”
He stood up, extended his hand, and said he hoped I would go on to write something nice.
A few days later, I received a subpoena to appear immediately at the district authority of police.
When I presented myself, I was asked to hand over my identification card. The official examined it for a moment and led me to the second floor to meet with a military member of executive power, apparently the local commander.
He was handed my quite well maintained ID, glanced at it, and started shouting: How dare I present such a grubby and tattered document. Did I realize that this document was the property of the state?
I protested that the ID was neither grubby nor tattered.
He roared at me to shut my trap. He paged through the ID booklet and carried on shouting: Where was I employed? Why didn’t I have a stamp?
I said I was not employed but worked freelance.
“So you’re freelance? To me, you’re a parasite, and that is how I will deal with you. I am hereby confiscating your identity booklet.”
When I didn’t budge, he advised me to clear out before he lost his patience.