生命不能承受之轻-第36部分

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He　was　in　the　situation　of　a　chess　player　who　cannot　avoid　checkmate　and　is　forced　to　resign。　Whether　he　signed　the　petition　or　not　made　not　the　slightest　difference。　It　would　alter　nothing　in　his　own　life　or　in　the　lives　of　the　political　prisoners。
Hand　it　over；　he　said；　and　took　the　sheet　of　paper。
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As　if　rewarding　him　for　his　decision；　the　editor　said；　That　was　a　fine　piece　you　wrote　about　Oedipus。　
Handing　him　a　pen；　his　son　added；　Some　ideas　have　the　force　of　a　bomb　exploding。　
Although　the　editor's　words　of　praise　pleased　him；　his　son's　metaphor　struck　him　as　forced　and　out　of　place。　Unfortunately；　I　was　the　only　casualty；　he　said。　Thanks　to　those　ideas；　I　can　no　longer　operate　on　my　patients。　
It　sounded　cold；　almost　hostile。
Apparently　hoping　to　counteract　the　discordant　note；　the　editor　said；　by　way　of　apology；　But　think　of　all　the　people　your　article　helped！　
From　childhood；　Tomas　had　associated　the　words　helping　people　with　one　thing　and　one　thing　only：　medicine。　How　could　an　article　help　people？　What　were　these　two　trying　to　make　him　swallow；　reducing　his　whole　life　to　a　single　small　idea　about　Oedipus　or　even　less：　to　a　single　primitive　no！　in　the　face　of　the　regime。
Maybe　it　helped　people；　maybe　it　didn't；　he　said　（in　a　voice　still　cold；　though　he　probably　did　not　realize　it）；　but　as　a　surgeon　I　know　I　saved　a　few　lives。　
Another　silence　set　in。　Tomas's　son　broke　it。　Ideas　can　save　lives；　too。　
Watching　his　own　mouth　in　the　boy's　face；　Tomas　thought　How　strange　to　see　one's　own　lips　stammer。
You　know　the　best　thing　about　what　you　wrote？　the　boy　went　on；　and　Tomas　could　see　the　effort　it　cost　him　to　speak。　Your　refusal　to　compromise。　Your　clear…cut　sense　of　what's　good　and　what's　evil；　something　we're　beginning　to　lose。　We　have　no　idea　anymore　what　it　means　to　feel　guilty。　The　Communists　have　the　excuse　that　Stalin　misled　them。　Murderers　have　the　excuse　that　their　mothers　didn't　love　them。　And　suddenly　you　come　out　and　say：　there　is　no　excuse。　No　one　could　be　more　innocent；　in　his　soul　and　conscience；　than　Oedipus。　And　yet　he　punished　himself　when　he　saw　what　he　had　done。　
Tomas　tore　his　eyes　away　from　his　son's　mouth　and　tried　to　focus　on　the　editor。　He　was　irritated　and　felt　like　arguing　with　them。　But　it's　all　a　misunderstanding！　The　border　between　good　and　evil　is　terribly　fuzzy。　I　wasn't　out　to　punish　anyone；　either。　Punishing　people　who　don't　know　what　they've　done　is　barbaric。　The　myth　of　Oedipus　is　a　beautiful　one；　but　treating　it　like　this。　。　。　He　had　more　to　say；　but　suddenly　he　remembered　that　the　place　might　be　bugged。　He　had　not　the　slightest　ambition　to　be　quoted　by　historians　of　centuries　to　come。　He　was　simply　afraid　of　being　quoted　by　the　police。　Wasn't　that　what　they　wanted　from　him；　after　all？　A　condemnation　of　the　article？　He　did　not　like　the　idea　of　feeding　it　to　them　from　his　own　lips。　Besides；　he　knew　that　anything　anyone　in　the　country　said　could　be　broadcast　over　the　radio　at　any　time。　He　held　his　tongue。
I　wonder　what's　made　you　change　your　mind；　said　the　editor。
What　I　wonder　is　what　made　me　write　the　thing　in　the　first　place；　said　Tomas；　and　just　then　he　remembered：　She　had　landed　at　his　bedside　like　a　child　sent　downstream　in　a　bulrush　basket。　Yes；　that　was　why　he　had　picked　up　the　book　and　gone　back　to　the　stories　of　Romulus；　Moses；　and　Oedipus。　And　now　she　was　with　him　again。　He　saw　her　pressing　the　crow　wrapped　in　red　to　her　breast。　The　image　of　her　brought　him　peace。　It　seemed　to　tell　him　that　Tereza　was　alive；　that　she　was　with　him　in　the　same　city；　and　that　nothing　else　counted。
This　time；　the　editor　broke　the　silence。　I　understand。　I　don't　like　the　idea　of　punishment；　either。　After　all；　he　added；　smiling；　we　don't　call　for　punishment　to　be　inflicted；　we　call　for　it　to　cease。　
I　know；　said　Tomas。　In　the　next　few　moments　he　would　do　something　possibly　noble　but　certainly；　and　totally；　useless　（because　it　would　not　help　the　political　prisoners）　and　unpleasant　to　himself　（because　it　took　place　under　conditions　the　two　of　them　had　imposed　on　him）。
It's　your　duty　to　sign；　his　son　added；　almost　pleading。
Duty？　His　son　reminding　him　of　his　duty？　That　was　the　worst　word　anyone　could　have　used　on　him！　Once　more；　the　image　of　Tereza　appeared　before　his　eyes；　Tereza　holding　the　crow　in　her　arms。　Then　he　remembered　that　she　had　been　accosted　by　an　undercover　agent　the　day　before。　Her　hands　had　started　trembling　again。　She　had　aged。　She　was　all　that　mattered　to　him。　She；　born　of　six　fortuities；　she；　the　blossom　sprung　from　the　chief　surgeon's　sciatica；　she；　the　reverse　side　of　all　his　Es　muss　sein！　—she　was　the　only　thing　he　cared　about。
Why　even　think　about　whether　to　sign　or　not？　There　was　only　one　criterion　for　all　his　decisions：　he　must　do　nothing　that　could　harm　her。　Tomas　could　not　save　political　prisoners；　but　he　could　make　Tereza　happy。　He　could　not　really　succeed　in　doing　even　that。　But　if　he　signed　the　petition；　he　could　be　fairly　certain　that　she　would　have　more　frequent　visits　from　undercover　agents；　and　that　her　hands　would　tremble　more　and　more。
It　is　much　more　important　to　dig　a　half…buried　crow　out　of　the　ground；　he　said；　than　to　send　petitions　to　a　president。　
He　knew　that　his　words　were　incomprehensible；　but　enjoyed　them　all　the　more　for　it。　He　felt　a　sudden；　unexpected　intoxication　come　over　him。　It　was　the　same　black　intoxication　he　had　felt　when　he　solemnly　announced　to　his　wife　that　he　no　longer　wished　to　see　her　or　his　son。　It　was　the　same　black　intoxication　he　had　felt　when　he　sent　off　the　letter　that　meant　the　end　of　his　career　in　medicine。　He　was　not　at　all　sure　he　was　doing　the　right　thing；　but　he　was　sure　he　was　doing　what　he　wanted　to　do。
I'm　sorry；　he　said；　but　I'm　not　going　to　sign。　
15
Several　days　later　he　read　about　the　petition　in　the　papers。
There　was　not　a　word；　of　course；　about　its　being　a　politely　worded　plea　for　the　release　of　political　prisoners。　None　of　the　papers　cited　a　single　sentence　from　the　short　text。　Instead；　they　went　on　at　great　length　and　in　vague；　menacing　terms　about　an　anti…state　proclamation　meant　to　lay　the　foundation　for　a　new　campaign　against　socialism。　They　also　listed　all　the　signatories；　accompanying　each　of　their　names　with　slanderous　attacks　that　gave　Tomas　gooseflesh。
Not　that　it　was　unexpected。　The　fact　that　any　public　undertaking　（meeting；　petition；　street　gathering）　not　organized　by　the　Communist　Party　was　automatically　considered　illegal　and　endangered　all　the　participants　was　common　knowledge。　But　it　may　have　made　him　sorrier　he　had　not　signed　the　petition。
Why　hadn't　he　signed？　He　could　no　longer　quite　remember　what　had　prompted　his　decision。
And　once　more　I　see　him　the　way　he　appeared　to　me　at　the　very　beginning　of　the　novel：　standing　at　the　window　and　staring　across　the　courtyard　at　the　walls　opposite。
This　is　the　image　from　which　he　was　born。　As　I　have　pointed　out　before；　characters　are　not　born　like　people；　of　woman；　they　are　born　of　a　situation；　a　sentence；　a　metaphor　containing　in　a　nutshell　a　basic　human　possibility　that　the　author　thinks　no　one　else　has　discovered　or　said　something　essential　about。　But　isn't　it　true　that　an　author　can　write　only　about　himself？　Staring　impotently　across　a　courtyard；　at　a　loss　for　what　to　do；　hearing　the　pertinacious　rumbling　of　one's　own　stomach　during　a　moment　of　love；　betraying；　yet　lacking　the　will　to　abandon　the　glamorous　path　of　betrayal；　raising　one's　fist　with　the　crowds　in　the　Grand　March；　displaying　one's　wit　before　hidden　microphones—I　have　known　all　these　situations；　I　have　experienced　them　myself；　yet　none　of　them　has　given　rise　to　the　person　my　curriculum　vitae　and　I　represent。　The　characters　in　my　novels　are　my　own　unrealized　possibilities。　That　is　why　I　am　equally　fond　of　them　all　and　equally　horrified　by　them。　Each　one　has　crossed　a　border　that　I　myself　have　circumvented。　It　is　that　crossed　border　（the　border　beyond　which　my　own　I　ends）　which　attracts　me　most。　For　beyond　that　border　begins　the　secret　the　novel　asks　about。　The　novel　is　not　the　author's　confession；　it　is　an　investigation　of　human　life　in　the　trap　the　world　has　become。　But　enough。　Let　us　return　to　Tomas。
Alone　in　his　flat；　he　stared　across　the　courtyard　at　the　dirty　walls　of　the　building　opposite。　He　missed　the　tall；　stooped　man　with　the　big　chin　and　the　man's　friends；　whom　he　did　not　know；　who　were　not　even　members　of　his　circle。　He　felt　as　though　he　had　just　met　a　beautiful　woman　on　a　railway　platform；　and　before　he　could　say　anything　to　her；　she　had　stepped　into　a　sleeping　car　on　its　way　to　Istanbul　or　Lisbon。
Then　he　tried　again　to　think　through　what　he　should　have　done。　Even　though　he　did　his　best　to　put　aside　everything　belonging　to　the　realm　of　the　emotions　（the　admiration　he　had　for　the　editor　and　the　irritation　his　son　caused　him）；　he　was　still　not　sure　whether　he　ought　to　have　signed　the　text　they　gave　him。
Is　it　right　to　raise　one's　voice　when　others　are　being　silenced？　Yes。
On　the　other　hand；　why　did　the　papers　devote　so　much　space　to　the　petition？　After　all；　the　press　（totally　manipulated　by　the　state）　could　have　kept　it　quiet　and　no　one　would　have　been　the　wiser。　If　they　publicized　the　petition；　then　the　petition　played　into　the　rulers'　hands！　It　was　manna　from　h