生命不能承受之轻-第43部分

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h；　and　made　their　case　to　the　Americans　on　the　podium　in　their　mother　tongue。　The　Americans；　not　understanding　a　word；　reacted　with　friendly；　agreeing　smiles。　In　the　end；　the　French　had　no　choice　but　to　frame　their　objection　in　English：　Why　is　this　meeting　in　English　when　there　are　Frenchmen　present？　
Though　amazed　at　so　curious　an　objection；　the　Americans；　still　smiling；　acquiesced：　the　meeting　would　be　run　bilingually。　Before　it　could　resume；　however；　a　suitable　interpreter　had　to　be　found。　Then；　every　sentence　had　to　resound　in　both　English　and　French；　which　made　the　discussion　take　twice　as　long；　or　rather　more　than　twice　as　long；　since　all　the　French　had　some　English　and　kept　interrupting　the　interpreter　to　correct　him；　disputing　every　word。
The　meeting　reached　its　peak　when　a　famous　American　actress　rose　to　speak。　Because　of　her；　even　more　photographers　and　cameramen　streamed　into　the　auditorium；　and　every　syllable　she　pronounced　was　accompanied　by　the　click　of　another　camera。　The　actress　spoke　about　suffering　children；　about　the　barbarity　of　Communist　dictatorship；　the　human　right　to　security；　the　current　threat　to　the　traditional　values　of　civilized　society；　the　inalienable　freedom　of　the　human　individual；　and　President　Carter；　who　was　deeply　sorrowed　by　the　events　in　Cambodia。　By　the　time　she　had　pronounced　her　closing　words；　she　was　in　tears。
Then　up　jumped　a　young　French　doctor　with　a　red　mustache　and　shouted；　We're　here　to　cure　dying　people；　not　to　pay　homage　to　President　Carter！　Let's　not　turn　this　into　an　American　propaganda　circus！　We're　not　here　to　protest　against　Communism！　We're　here　to　save　lives！　
He　was　immediately　seconded　by　several　other　Frenchmen。
The　interpreter　was　frightened　and　did　not　dare　translate　what　they　said。　So　the　twenty　Americans　on　the　podium　looked　on　once　more　with　smiles　full　of　good　will；　many　nodding　agreement。　One　of　them　even　lifted　his　fist　in　the　air　because　he　knew　Europeans　liked　to　raise　their　fists　in　times　of　collective　euphoria。
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How　can　it　be　that　leftist　intellectuals　（because　the　doctor　with　the　mustache　was　nothing　if　not　a　leftist　intellectual）　are　willing　to　march　against　the　interests　of　a　Communist　country　when　Communism　has　always　been　considered　the　left's　domain？
When　the　crimes　of　the　country　called　the　Soviet　Union　became　too　scandalous；　a　leftist　had　two　choices：　either　to　spit　on　his　former　life　and　stop　marching　or　（more　or　less　sheepishly）　to　reclassify　the　Soviet　Union　as　an　obstacle　to　the　Grand　March　and　march　on。
Have　I　not　said　that　what　makes　a　leftist　a　leftist　is　the　kitsch　of　the　Grand　March？　The　identity　of　kitsch　comes　not　from　a　political　strategy　but　from　images；　metaphors；　and　vocabulary。　It　is　therefore　possible　to　break　the　habit　and　march　against　the　interests　of　a　Communist　country。　What　is　impossible；　however；　is　to　substitute　one　word　for　others。　It　is　possible　to　threaten　the　Vietnamese　army　with　one's　fist。　It　is　impossible　to　shout　Down　with　Communism！　Down　with　Communism！　is　a　slogan　belonging　to　the　enemies　of　the　Grand　March；　and　anyone　worried　about　losing　face　must　remain　faithful　to　the　purity　of　his　own　kitsch。
The　only　reason　I　bring　all　this　up　is　to　explain　the　misunderstanding　between　the　French　doctor　and　the　American　actress；　who；　egocentric　as　she　was；　imagined　herself　the　victim　of　envy　or　misogyny。　In　point　of　fact；　the　French　doctor　displayed　a　finely　honed　aesthetic　sensibility：　the　phrases　President　Carter；　our　traditional　values；　the　barbarity　of　Communism　all　belong　to　the　vocabulary　of　American　kitsch　and　have　nothing　to　do　with　the　kitsch　of　the　Grand　March。
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The　next　morning；　they　all　boarded　buses　and　rode　through　Thailand　to　the　Cambodian　border。　In　the　evening；　they　pulled　into　a　small　village　where　they　had　rented　several　houses　on　stilts。　The　regularly　flooding　river　forced　the　villagers　to　live　above　ground　level；　while　their　pigs　huddled　down　below。　Franz　slept　in　a　room　with　four　other　professors。　From　afar　came　the　oinking　of　the　swine；　from　up　close　the　snores　of　a　famous　mathematician。
In　the　morning；　they　climbed　back　into　the　buses。　At　a　point　about　a　mile　from　the　border；　all　vehicular　traffic　was　prohibited。　The　border　crossing　could　be　reached　only　by　means　of　a　narrow；　heavily　guarded　road。　The　buses　stopped。　The　French　contingent　poured　out　of　them　only　to　find　that　again　the　Americans　had　beaten　them　and　formed　the　vanguard　of　the　parade。　The　crucial　moment　had　come。　The　interpreter　was　recalled　and　a　long　quarrel　ensued。　At　last　everyone　assented　to　the　following：　the　parade　would　be　headed　by　one　American；　one　Frenchman；　and　the　Cambodian　interpreter；　next　would　come　the　doctors；　and　only　then　the　rest　of　the　crowd。　The　American　actress　brought　up　the　rear。
The　road　was　narrow　and　lined　with　minefields。　Every　so　often　it　was　narrowed　even　more　by　a　barrier—two　cement　blocks　wound　round　with　barbed　wire—passable　only　in　single　file。
About　fifteen　feet　ahead　of　Franz　was　a　famous　German　poet　and　pop　singer　who　had　already　written　nine　hundred　thirty　songs　for　peace　and　against　war。　He　was　carrying　a　long　pole　topped　by　a　white　flag　that　set　off　his　full　black　beard　and　set　him　apart　from　the　others。
All　up　and　down　the　long　parade；　photographers　and　cameramen　were　snapping　and　whirring　their　equipment；　dashing　up　to　the　front；　pausing；　inching　back；　dropping　to　their　knees；　then　straightening　up　and　running　even　farther　ahead。　Now　and　then　they　would　call　out　the　name　of　some　celebrity；　who　would　then　unwittingly　turn　in　their　direction　just　long　enough　to　let　them　trigger　their　shutters。
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Something　was　in　the　air。　People　were　slowing　down　and　looking　back。
The　American　actress；　who　had　ended　up　in　the　rear；　could　no　longer　stand　the　disgrace　of　it　and；　determined　to　take　the　offensive；　was　sprinting　to　the　head　of　the　parade。　It　was　as　if　a　runner　in　a　five…kilometer　race；　who　had　been　saving　his　strength　by　hanging　back　with　the　pack；　had　suddenly　sprung　forward　and　started　overtaking　his　opponents　one　by　one。
The　men　stepped　back　with　embarrassed　smiles；　not　wishing　to　spoil　the　famous　runner's　bid　for　victory；　but　the　women　yelled；　Get　back　in　line！　This　is　no　star　parade！　
Undaunted；　the　actress　pushed　on；　a　suite　of　five　photographers　and　two　cameramen　in　tow。
Suddenly　a　Frenchwoman；　a　professor　of　linguistics；　grabbed　the　actress　by　the　wrist　and　said　（in　terrible…sounding　English）；　This　is　a　parade　for　doctors　who　have　come　to　care　for　mortally　ill　Cambodians；　not　a　publicity　stunt　for　movie　stars！　
The　actress's　wrist　was　locked　in　the　linguistics　professor's　grip；　she　could　do　nothing　to　pry　it　loose。　What　the　hell　do　you　think　you're　doing？　she　said　（in　perfect　English）。　I've　been　in　a　hundred　parades　like　this！　You　won't　get　anywhere　without　stars！　It's　our　job！　Our　moral　obligation！　
Merde　said　the　linguistics　professor　（in　perfect　French）。
The　American　actress　understood　and　burst　into　tears。
Hold　it；　please；　a　cameraman　called　out　and　knelt　at　her　feet。　The　actress　gave　a　long　look　into　his　lens；　the　tears　flowing　down　her　cheeks。
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When　at　last　the　linguistics　professor　let　go　of　the　American　actress's　wrist；　the　German　pop　singer　with　the　black　beard　and　white　flag　called　out　her　name。
The　American　actress　had　never　heard　of　him；　but　after　being　humiliated　she　was　more　receptive　to　sympathy　than　usual　and　ran　over　to　him。　The　singer　switched　the　pole　to　his　left　hand　and　put　his　right　arm　around　her　shoulders。
They　were　immediately　surrounded　by　new　photographers　and　cameramen。　A　well…known　American　photographer；　having　trouble　squeezing　both　their　faces　and　the　flag　into　his　viewfinder　because　the　pole　was　so　long；　moved　back　a　few　steps　into　the　ricefield。　And　so　it　happened　that　he　stepped　on　a　mine。　An　explosion　rang　out；　and　his　body；　ripped　to　pieces；　went　flying　through　the　air；　raining　a　shower　of　blood　on　the　European　intellectuals。
The　singer　and　the　actress　were　horrified　and　could　not　budge。　They　lifted　their　eyes　to　the　flag。　It　was　spattered　with　blood。　Once　more　they　were　horrified。　Then　they　timidly　ventured　a　few　more　looks　upward　and　began　to　smile　slightly。　They　were　filled　with　a　strange　pride；　a　pride　they　had　never　known　before：　the　flag　they　were　carrying　had　been　consecrated　by　blood。　Once　more　they　joined　the　march。
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The　border　was　formed　by　a　small　river；　but　because　a　long　wall；　six　feet　high　and　lined　with　sandbags　to　protect　Thai　sharpshooters；　ran　alongside　it；　it　was　invisible。　There　was　only　one　breach　in　the　wall；　at　the　point　where　a　bridge　spanned　the　river。　Vietnamese　forces　lay　in　wait　on　the　other　side；　but　they；　too；　were　invisible；　their　positions　perfectly　camouflaged。　It　was　clear；　however；　that　the　moment　anyone　set　foot　on　the　bridge；　the　invisible　Vietnamese　would　open　fire。
The　parade　participants　went　up　to　the　wall　and　stood　on　tiptoe。　Franz　peered　into　the　gap　between　two　sandbags；　trying　to　see　what　was　going　on。　He　saw　nothing。　Then　he　was　shoved　away　by　a　photographer；　who　felt　that　he　had　more　right　to　the　space。
Franz　looked　back。　Seven　photographers　were　perching　in　the　mighty　crown　of　an　isolated　tree　like　a　flock　of　overgrown　crows；　their　eyes　fixed　on　the　opposite　bank。
Just　then　the