Free THE BASS SAXOPHONE by Josef Škvorecký Page B

and male dominance (
Frauendienst ist Gottesdienst
).
    But when I returned to the room (I had left for a moment, and in the corridor to the toilet — where I was singing blues without words, the way youth since the beginning of time has given voice to the joy of motion and rhythm by chanting unintelligible nonsense syllables in rapid succession — I got to talking with the leader of the jazz band who was making his way there too, fiddle in hand, and who recognized in me a brother in the international brotherhood of rhythmic, antiracist, antifascist syncopated music) I found Emöke dancing in the arms of the schoolteacher, who was telling her something with great urgency, and when he caught sight of me (I had stopped and was leaning against a column, watching them) the expression on his face changed unwittingly to that of someone caught doing something he shouldn’t; when the piece ended he bowed to Emöke and went with untoward willingness over to his table and his white wine, fixing on me the black hate-filled eyes of a man avenging a defeat in the eternal struggle. I went over to Emöke and asked her to dance; she came but she was suddenly different, the membrane of monastic reserve once again obscuring her pupils. What is it, Emöke? What happened to you? I asked. Nothing, she said, but she was dancing lifelessly, passively submitting to my movements like an indifferent dance partner casually asked to dance in some dance hall into which a lonely young man has wanderedfoolishly seeking diversion, seeking to fill a lonely city afternoon with a casual dance with a partner he doesn’t know and who doesn’t know him, they dance a set of foxtrots together, in silence or exchanging a few conventional phrases, neither appeals to the other, they nod a bow and he leads her to her table where there is a glass of soda-pop and he says, Thank you, she nods again, they part and forget each other’s existence and he just sits there looking at the half-empty dance floor of the half-empty dance hall and he doesn’t dance after that and he goes home alone and lonely and goes to sleep, devoured and torn by the indifferent isolation of big cities. What happened to you? I insisted. Something happened. There’s something on your mind, Emöke, tell me what it is. Then she turned to me, and in her eyes, around her eyes, in the configuration of the fine lines that comprise immediate expression, there was painful surprise, the sorrowful self-deriding reproof of a woman who suddenly realizes that she has once again done something she swore she would never do again, and she said to me, I’m sorry, but could you show me your identity folder? For a millisecond I was startled, not painfully or offendedly, simply startled by that almost official request, whereupon I felt a surge of fondness for the simplicity, the straightforward, ordinary, honorable way in which she took my offer of marriageso matter-of-factly, the only right way, without the movie mysticism of fragile emotions, and instantly I knew it was the schoolteacher, that in his impotent rage the schoolteacher had convinced her I was a cheat, a married man taking a vacation from his marriage, and his dirty mind had transformed the fictional tale of my forthcoming marriage to a widow and the legend of Emöke into this ugly and yet logically credible tale, and immediately I felt a wave of tenderness toward Emöke, who had encountered that kind of man in her own marriage and was now terrified that I might be the same. I said, Emöke! Who gave you that idea? Of course I can show you my identity folder, and I reached into my inside breast pocket for that document that would confirm the truthfulness of my actions, my countenance, and she said, with an inexpressible sadness in her voice, Why are you lying to me? You don’t have to show me anything. I know everything. But what? What? Emöke! There isn’t anything to know! I said. Why do you deny it? she replied. I thought you were different,