country, and perhaps we may in turn inform him of our own proud literature, of which perhaps he knows regrettably little. Ah, so let me finally, then, since there is a saying that too long a courtship spoils the marriage, offer to drink, in our native plum brandy
slivovica
, ah, firstly to the success of his visit and, in the second place, to the mutual increase of international understanding.”
“Thank you,” Bech said and, as a courtesy, drained his glass. It was wrong; the others, having merely sipped, stared. The purple burning revolved in Bech’s stomach and a severe distaste for himself, for his role, for this entire artificial and futile process, were focused into a small brown spot on a pear in the bowl so shiningly posed before his eyes.
The red-eyed fool smelling of cheese was ornamenting the toast. “It is a personal honor for me to meet the man who, in
Travel Light
, truly added a new dimension to American prose.”
“The book was written,” Bech said, “ten years ago.”
“And since?” A slumping, mustached man sat up and sprang into English. “Since, you have written what?”
Bech had been asked that question often in these weeks and his answer had grown curt. “A second novel called
Brother Pig
, which is St. Bernard’s expression for the body.”
“Good. Yes, and?”
“A collection of essays and sketches called
When the Saints
.”
“I like the title less well.”
“It’s the beginning of a famous Negro song.”
“We know the song,” another man said, a smaller man, with the tense, dented mouth of a hare. He lightly sang, “Lordy, I just want to be in that number.”
“And the last book,” Bech said, “was a long novel called
The Chosen
that took five years to write and that nobody liked.”
“I have read reviews,” the red-eyed man said. “I have not read the book. Copies are difficult here.”
“I’ll give you one,” Bech said.
The promise seemed, somehow, to make the recipient unfortunately conspicuous; wringing his stained hands, he appeared to swell in size, to intrude grotesquely upon the inner ring, so that the interpreter took it upon himself to whisper, with the haste of an apology, into Bech’s ear, “This gentleman is well known as the translator into our language of
Alice in Wonderland
.”
“A marvelous book,” the translator said, deflating in relief, pulling at his pockets for a cigarette. “It truly takes us into another dimension. Something that must be done. We live in a new cosmos.”
The chairman spoke in Bulgarian, musically, at length. There was polite laughter. Nobody translated for Bech. The professorial type, his hair like a flaxen toupee, jerked forward. “Tell me, is it true, as I have read”—his phrases whistled slightly, like rusty machinery—“that the stock of Sinclair Lewis has plummeted under the Salinger wave?”
And so it went, here as in Kiev, Prague, and Alma-Ata, the same questions, more or less predictable, and his own answers, terribly familiar to him by now, mechanical, stale, irrelevant, untrue, claustrophobic. Then the door opened. In came, with the rosy air of a woman fresh from a bath, a little breathless, having hurried, hatless, a woman in a blond coat, her hair also blond. The secretary, entering behind her, seemed to make a cherishing space around her with his large curved hands. He introduced her to Bech as Vera Something-ova, the poetess he had asked to meet. None of the others on the list, he explained, had answered their telephones.
“Aren’t you kind to come?” As Bech asked it, it was a genuine question, to which he expected some sort of an answer.
She spoke to the interpreter in Bulgarian. “She says,” the interpreter told Bech, “she is sorry she is so late.”
“But she was just called!” In the warmth of his confusion and pleasure Bech turned to speak directly to her, forgetting he would not be understood. “I’m terribly sorry to have interrupted your morning.”
“I am
slivovica
, ah, firstly to the success of his visit and, in the second place, to the mutual increase of international understanding.”
“Thank you,” Bech said and, as a courtesy, drained his glass. It was wrong; the others, having merely sipped, stared. The purple burning revolved in Bech’s stomach and a severe distaste for himself, for his role, for this entire artificial and futile process, were focused into a small brown spot on a pear in the bowl so shiningly posed before his eyes.
The red-eyed fool smelling of cheese was ornamenting the toast. “It is a personal honor for me to meet the man who, in
Travel Light
, truly added a new dimension to American prose.”
“The book was written,” Bech said, “ten years ago.”
“And since?” A slumping, mustached man sat up and sprang into English. “Since, you have written what?”
Bech had been asked that question often in these weeks and his answer had grown curt. “A second novel called
Brother Pig
, which is St. Bernard’s expression for the body.”
“Good. Yes, and?”
“A collection of essays and sketches called
When the Saints
.”
“I like the title less well.”
“It’s the beginning of a famous Negro song.”
“We know the song,” another man said, a smaller man, with the tense, dented mouth of a hare. He lightly sang, “Lordy, I just want to be in that number.”
“And the last book,” Bech said, “was a long novel called
The Chosen
that took five years to write and that nobody liked.”
“I have read reviews,” the red-eyed man said. “I have not read the book. Copies are difficult here.”
“I’ll give you one,” Bech said.
The promise seemed, somehow, to make the recipient unfortunately conspicuous; wringing his stained hands, he appeared to swell in size, to intrude grotesquely upon the inner ring, so that the interpreter took it upon himself to whisper, with the haste of an apology, into Bech’s ear, “This gentleman is well known as the translator into our language of
Alice in Wonderland
.”
“A marvelous book,” the translator said, deflating in relief, pulling at his pockets for a cigarette. “It truly takes us into another dimension. Something that must be done. We live in a new cosmos.”
The chairman spoke in Bulgarian, musically, at length. There was polite laughter. Nobody translated for Bech. The professorial type, his hair like a flaxen toupee, jerked forward. “Tell me, is it true, as I have read”—his phrases whistled slightly, like rusty machinery—“that the stock of Sinclair Lewis has plummeted under the Salinger wave?”
And so it went, here as in Kiev, Prague, and Alma-Ata, the same questions, more or less predictable, and his own answers, terribly familiar to him by now, mechanical, stale, irrelevant, untrue, claustrophobic. Then the door opened. In came, with the rosy air of a woman fresh from a bath, a little breathless, having hurried, hatless, a woman in a blond coat, her hair also blond. The secretary, entering behind her, seemed to make a cherishing space around her with his large curved hands. He introduced her to Bech as Vera Something-ova, the poetess he had asked to meet. None of the others on the list, he explained, had answered their telephones.
“Aren’t you kind to come?” As Bech asked it, it was a genuine question, to which he expected some sort of an answer.
She spoke to the interpreter in Bulgarian. “She says,” the interpreter told Bech, “she is sorry she is so late.”
“But she was just called!” In the warmth of his confusion and pleasure Bech turned to speak directly to her, forgetting he would not be understood. “I’m terribly sorry to have interrupted your morning.”
“I am
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