UNCONFISCATABLE

pro kontext k povídce viz můj článek z 24.1.

***

It would be warm and scented, the cosiest shop in the town. There could be a few modestly sweet-smelling lavender candles, but only in the wardrobes. My candles might not emit the loveliest perfume, but they would certainly last the longest – which is convenient for people who fancy night reading (for at six in the morning, their book is to be collected to be shared further). My candle shop would be ideal for the type of people who love fearlessly sitting on the wide white ledges of their windows, long legs with sore knees finally comfortably outstretched after cycling, with a cup of tea in one hand and their book in the other, my candle keeping them company throughout the night. It would illuminate the pages, make words come alive, but – never– give out enough light to attract attention from the street outside. I would ensure technical perfection. My candles would be equipped with a semi-permeable lid to avoid any dangerous contact with paper and they would have a small hook, enabling them to be mounted or carried around in case my dearest customer needs a bit of candlelight to draw her book onto her home library. This customer would be my shop’s only customer and she would not have to pay at all.

***

‘I have lost her!’ 

‘The book?’ he asked, because in Czech, books are feminine. But I meant my grandmother. 

The dynamo of my bike refused to shine, because now that all was static, it was not supplied with any energy.

‘Don’t you realise how dangerous it is to leave a samizdat book lying here, not to mention the mud, waiting for the Secret Police to come and pick it up?’

My eyes opened. They were no longer like slits, but I could feel that the surrounding skin had stayed puckered. My pupils dilated. Yes, I failed in delivering Heart of a Dog. But he failed to be my deliverer. 

‘Had we not agreed that you would wait until I come to collect the book in the morning? You know, it was lucky we met on this road in the first place!’ 

The novella was not drawn into my library. It was hopelessly lost somewhere in the wind which was spitefully blowing the memory of it into my face again and again. 

***

Performing the same ritual for the hundredth time, my fingers were quick in sketching a new paperback onto my shelf. My mind wandered. Do people in the West read at all? Do they not just travel and have their ebony libraries filled with dusty stacks of forgotten paper of no value to them? If life without Eszter was possible, then life without reading must be, too. 

A thick black line of badly trimmed pencil appeared across my library as my hand faltered. ‘Not now!’ I exclaimed internally. In a rush of panic, I began to think of a hiding place. I considered fitting myself behind the staircase, even jumping out of the window, or – the bell rang for the second time – simply using a rubber to make my library even less real than before. My fingers, the ones that knew most intimately the touch of every edition, were now to embrace an omnipotent instrument and make them all vanish. Kapuscinski, Čapek, Havel, Zahradníček, Orwell, Paszternak and all the Hungarians. I ordered them to do so. But they revolted. So deep were the marks of each book engraved in the texture of their skin. 

With hands hanging down my side in resignation, I approached the door to welcome the secret police.

‘I’ve just come from the post office, there’s a parcel waiting for you!’ my neighbour’s son Vašek informed me importantly. 

My fingers hastened to unwrap a book-shaped package. The thing was so soaked in mud that no censor could have guessed a word in it. But I knew what it was all about. 

***

My fingers grasped the very symbol of the regime to defy its rules and laughed with every strike against the innocently white wall. Luckily, nails had just become available and soon a modest shelf from chipboard was erected on my wall to become the foundation stone of my library. It was stable enough to hold the one unconfiscatable book I now possessed - a book wrapped in SZAR, as Eszter would joke. 

Or would she? I reread a passage of her diary she had torn out and attached to the book.

‘I have lost her!’ 

‘The book?’ you asked. But I meant my grandmother. 

The dynamo of my bike refused to shine because now that all was static, it was not supplied with any energy. So I couldn’t see your face as you shouted: 

‘Don’t you realise how dangerous it is to leave a samizdat book lying here, not to mention the mud, waiting for the Secret Police to come and pick it up?’

My eyes opened. They were no longer like slits, but I could feel that the surrounding skin had stayed puckered. My pupils dilated. Yes, I failed in delivering Heart of a Dog. But You, Martin, failed to be my deliverer. 

You only cared about the book. 

‘Had we not agreed that you would wait until I come to collect the book in the morning? You know, it was lucky we met on this road in the first place!’ You admonished me. 

I refused to drawthe novella onto my library. It was hopelessly lost somewhere in the wind which was spitefully blowing the memory of it into my face again and again. 

Then, in a different type of handwriting which Eszter’s fingers had surely produced in a completely different mood, very matter-of-factly, she added:

Yesterday, on the third day after her funeral, I went to light a candle on granny’s grave. Not far from the village cemetery, I tripped over this book. 

And on a small piece of paper smelling of burnt candles, she scribbled the words her father would whisper to her mother. 

In Hungarian, they were just what I needed to hear: Unconfiscatable.

 

Zdroj: oficiální logo UCL Publishers' Prize 2020 na téma Libraries