Free The Prague Orgy by Philip Roth Page A

introduces himself gruffly as Novak. Soft, fine white hair like the fluff of a dry dandelion. Otherwise a man made of meat. He is no charmer like the hotel clerk.
    Out beyond the heavy city traffic I am unable to tell if we really are on the airport road. Can they be taking me to jail in a limo? I always seem to end up in these large black cars. The dashboard says this one is a Tatra 603.
    “ Sie sprechen Deuisch, nicht wahr? ” Novak asks me.
    “ Etwas. ”
    “ Kennen sie Fraulein Betty MacDonald? ”
    We continue in Gennan. “ I don ’ t, ” I say.
    “ You don ’ t ?”
    “ No. ”
    “ You don ’ t know Miss Betty MacDonald? ”
    I can ’ t stop thinking how badly this can still turn out—or, alternatively, that I could honorably have abandoned the mission once I saw the dangers were real. Because Sisovsky claimed to be my counterpart from the world that my own fortunate family had eluded didn ’ t mean I had to prove him right by rushing in to change places. I assume his fate and he assumes mine—wasn ’ t that sort of his idea from the start? When I came to New York I said to Eva, “ I am a relative of this great man. ”
    Guilty of conspiring against the Czech people with somebody named Betty MacDonald. Thus i conclude my penance.
    “ Sorry, ” I say, “ 1 don ’ t know her. ”
    “ But, ” says Novak, “ she is the author of The Egg and I. ”
    “ Ah. Yes. About a farm—wasn ’ t it? I haven ’ t read it since I was a schoolboy. ”
    Novak is incredulous. “ But it is a masterpiece. ”
    “ Well, I can ’ t say it ’ s considered a masterpiece in America. I ’ d be surprised if in American anybody under thirty has even heard of The Egg and I. ”
    “ I cannot believe this. ”
    “ It ’ s true. It was popular in the forties, a bestseller, a movie, but books like that come and go. Surely you have the same thing here. ”
    “ Trial is a tragedy. And what has happened to Miss Betty MacDonald? ”
    “ I have no idea. ”
    “ Why does something like this happen in America to a writer like Miss MacDonald? ”
    “ I don ’ t think even Miss MacDonald expected her book to endure forever. ”
    “ You have not answered me. You avoid the question. Why does this happen in America? ”
    “ I don ’ t know. ”
    I search in vain for signs to the airport.
    Novak is suddenly angry. “ There is no paranoia here about writers. ”
    “ I didn ’ t say there was. ”
    “ I am a writer. I am a successful writer. Nobody is paranoid about me. Ours is the most literate country in Europe. Our people love books. I have in the Writers ” Union dozens of writers, poets, novelists, playwrights, and no one is paranoid about them. No, it isn ’ t writers who fall under our suspicion in Czechoslovakia. In this small country the writers have a great burden to bear: they must not only make the country ’ s literature, they must be the touchstone for general decency and public conscience. They occupy a high position in our national life because they are people who live beyond reproach. Our writers are loved by their readers. The country looks to them for moral leadership. No, it is those who stand outside of the common life, that is who we all fear. And we are right to. ”
    I can imagine what he contributes to his country ’ s literature: Stilt more humorous Novakian tales about the crooked tittle streets of Old Prague, stories that poke fun at all citizens, high and low, and always with spicy folk humor and mischievous fantasy. A must for the sentimental at holiday time.
    “ You are with the Writers ’ Union? ” I ask.
    My ignorance ignites a glower of contempt. I dare to think of myself as an educated person and know nothing of the meaning of the Tatra 603? He says, “ Ich bin der Kulturminister. ”
    So he is the man who administers the culture of Czechoslovakia, whose job is to bring the aims of literature into line with the aims of society, to make literature less inefficient, from a social