Free Necessary Errors: A Novel by Caleb Crain Page B

cobbled courtyard in front of the theater, while they stood reading the poster, an usher, a boy in his teens, approached and asked if they wanted to see the movie without paying; when his grandmotherly colleague was distracted, he let them in through a side exit, and Luboš handed him a small tip. Since seating in the theater was assigned, the boy had to make a show of directing them to their seats, which he did as formally as if he had not just belied his uniform. The movie itself was not likely to be as entertaining, but when the lights dimmed, Luboš allowed Jacob to hold his hand. —Don’t be afraid, he said to Jacob half jokingly. —I’m here.
    Jacob gave himself to the movie’s artificial terrors, and afterward, in the cold air outside, the sun just setting, he felt refreshed and at ease. They crossed the river on the Charles Bridge, against the flow of tourists; Luboš had chosen a restaurant on the east bank. They walked throughand then down Celetná—all the way toRepubliky, the Square of the Republic, where, to Jacob’s surprise, Luboš led him into the Municipal House, a salmon-colored palace, fronted by a grand canopied entrance of tarnished iron, with bronze atlantes bearing geometric lamps, and above the atlantes, a half-moon mosaic of allegorical women, nude and clothed. There was a restaurant just inside, to the right, which looked as if it were reserved for visiting dignitaries. But Luboš was speaking to the maître d’; they had a reservation.
    The dining hall held perhaps fifty tables, wrapped in white linen, the silver placed with an almost military correctness. All but a few were empty. The light of the chandeliers was brightened by their gilding and by reflection in the yellow and white of the walls, which framed, on high, murals of the city of Prague. In one, a woman extended her arms to the viewer, as if in welcome.
    Luboš and Jacob followed a waiter down a few steps to a table on the main floor. —Kuba, in this building, they declared the republic.
    —In November?
    —In 1918. The First Republic.
    —Where did they declare the current republic?
    —Perhaps in Wenceslas?
    —You weren’t there?
    —I was there a little. I’m not so engagé.
    As the twilight failed, the white curtains became more opaque, more solid. It was still just possible to see through them, but one saw not the street but the scaffolding outside the windows. The overall effect was thus of a stage set of a restaurant interior that was becoming more plausible as the lighting was adjusted.
    —Kuba, I have a question, Luboš began. He often said this by way of introduction, to help Jacob distinguish an actual question from the uncertainty sometimes audible in his voice as to whether Jacob understood what he was saying. He was smiling unevenly, like a diplomat obliged to raise an awkward subject for the sake of the country he represented. —How did you earn money in America?
    —I told you. I worked in an office.
    —You did not sell yourself?
    —Sell oneself? Jacob echoed the phrase, to ask for clarification. It was a reflexive verb, and sometimes they had unexpected meanings.
    —Your body. Your sex. You know what it is, prostitution?
    He saw, this time, that Luboš was playing a game of some kind.
    —Many people do it. And you are pretty and manly.
    —No, I never did. He decided not to try to hide his puzzlement. —Why are you asking?
    —I had the impression, that it is normal with you in America.
    Jacob could not tell at what level the joke was being played. Was this a misapprehension caused by years of Communist propaganda, or a joke at the expense of the propaganda? Was Luboš mocking the misconceptions that straights have of gays? Or perhaps it was a poke at Jacob’s innocence, which Jacob knew he still had not really shed.
    —Never? Luboš asked once more. He still wore a diplomat’s smile, as if the question weren’t his, or were asked for a purpose other than that of eliciting an answer, but in his tone