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The　brain　appears　to　possess　a　special　area　which　we　might　call　poetic　memory　and　which　records　everything　that　charms　or　touches　us；　that　makes　our　lives　beautiful。　From　the　time　he　met　Tereza；　no　woman　had　the　right　to　leave　the　slightest　impression　on　that　part　of　his　brain。
Tereza　occupied　his　poetic　memory　like　a　despot　and　exterminated　all　trace　of　other　women。　That　was　unfair；　because　the　young　woman　he　made　love　to　on　the　rug　during　the　storm　was　not　a　bit　less　worthy　of　poetry　than　Tereza。　She　shouted；　Close　your　eyes！　Squeeze　my　hips！　Hold　me　tight！　；　she　could　not　stand　it　that　when　Tomas　made　love　he　kept　his　eyes　open；　focused　and　observant；　his　body　ever　so　slightly　arched　above　her；　never　pressing　against　her　skin。　She　did　not　want　him　to　study　her。　She　wanted　to　draw　him　into　the　magic　stream　that　may　be　entered　only　with　closed　eyes。　The　reason　she　refused　to　get　down　on　all　fours　was　that　in　that　position　their　bodies　did　not　touch　at　all　and　he　could　observe　her　from　a　distance　of　several　feet。　She　hated　that　distance。　She　wanted　to　merge　with　him。　That　is　why；　looking　him　straight　in　the　eye；　she　insisted　she　had　not　had　an　orgasm　even　though　the　rug　was　fairly　dripping　with　it。　It's　not　sensual　pleasure　I'm　after；　she　would　say；　it's　happiness。　And　pleasure　without　happiness　is　not　pleasure。　In　other　words；　she　was　pounding　on　the　gate　of　his　poetic　memory。　But　the　gate　was　shut。　There　was　no　room　for　her　in　his　poetic　memory。　There　was　room　for　her　only　on　the　rug。
His　adventure　with　Tereza　began　at　the　exact　point　where　his　adventures　with　other　women　left　off。　It　took　place　on　the　other　side　of　the　imperative　that　pushed　him　into　conquest　after　conquest。　He　had　no　desire　to　uncover　anything　in　Tereza。　She　had　come　to　him　uncovered。　He　had　made　love　to　her　before　he　could　grab　for　the　imaginary　scalpel　he　used　to　open　the　prostrate　body　of　the　world。　Before　he　could　start　wondering　what　she　would　be　like　when　they　made　love；　he　loved　her。
Their　love　story　did　not　begin　until　afterward：　she　fell　ill　and　he　was　unable　to　send　her　home　as　he　had　the　others。　Kneeling　by　her　as　she　lay　sleeping　in　his　bed；　he　realized　that　someone　had　sent　her　downstream　in　a　bulrush　basket。　I　have　said　before　that　metaphors　are　dangerous。　Love　begins　with　a　metaphor。　Which　is　to　say；　love　begins　at　the　point　when　a　woman　enters　her　first　word　into　our　poetic　memory。
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Recently　she　had　made　another　entry　into　his　mind。　Returning　home　with　the　milk　one　morning　as　usual；　she　stood　in　the　doorway　with　a　crow　wrapped　in　her　red　scarf　and　pressed　against　her　breast。　It　was　the　way　gypsies　held　their　babies。　He　would　never　forget　it：　the　crow's　enormous　plaintive　beak　up　next　to　her　face。
She　had　found　it　half…buried；　the　way　Cossacks　used　to　dig　their　prisoners　into　the　ground。　It　was　children；　she　said；　and　her　words　did　more　than　state　a　fact；　they　revealed　an　unexpected　repugnance　for　people　in　general。　It　reminded　him　of　something　she　had　said　to　him　not　long　before：　I'm　beginning　to　be　grateful　to　you　for　not　wanting　to　have　children。　
And　then　she　had　complained　to　him　about　a　man　who　had　been　bothering　her　at　work。　He　had　grabbed　at　a　cheap　necklace　of　hers　and　suggested　that　the　only　way　she　could　have　afforded　it　was　by　doing　some　prostitution　on　the　side。　She　was　very　upset　about　it。　More　than　necessary；　thought　Tomas。　He　suddenly　felt　dismayed　at　how　little　he　had　seen　of　her　the　last　two　years；　he　had　so　few　opportunities　to　press　her　hands　in　his　to　stop　them　from　trembling。
The　next　morning　he　had　gone　to　work　with　Tereza　on　his　mind。　The　woman　who　gave　the　window　washers　their　assignments　told　him　that　a　private　customer　had　insisted　on　him　personally。　Tomas　was　not　looking　forward　to　it；　he　was　afraid　it　was　still　another　woman。　Fully　occupied　with　Tereza；　he　was　in　no　mood　for　adventure。
When　the　door　opened；　he　gave　a　sigh　of　relief。　He　saw　a　tall；　slightly　stooped　man　before　him。　The　man　had　a　big　chin　and　seemed　vaguely　familiar。
Come　in；　said　the　man　with　a　smile；　taking　him　inside。
There　was　also　a　young　man　standing　there。　His　face　was　bright　red。　He　was　looking　at　Tomas　and　trying　to　smile。
I　assume　there's　no　need　for　me　to　introduce　you　two；　said　the　man。
No；　said　Tomas；　and　without　returning　the　smile　he　held　out　his　hand　to　the　young　man。　It　was　his　son。
Only　then　did　the　man　with　the　big　chin　introduce　himself。
I　knew　you　looked　familiar！　said　Tomas。　Of　course！　Now　I　place　you。　It　was　the　name　that　did　it。　
They　sat　down　at　what　was　like　a　small　conference　table。　Tomas　realized　that　both　men　opposite　him　were　his　own　involuntary　creations。　He　had　been　forced　to　produce　the　younger　one　by　his　first　wife；　and　the　features　of　the　older　one　had　taken　shape　when　he　was　under　interrogation　by　the　police。
To　clear　his　mind　of　these　thoughts；　he　said；　Well；　which　window　do　you　want　me　to　start　with？　
Both　men　burst　out　laughing。
Clearly　windows　had　nothing　to　do　with　the　case。　He　had　not　been　called　in　to　do　the　windows；　he　had　been　lured　into　a　trap。　He　had　never　before　talked　to　his　son。　This　was　the　first　time　he　had　shaken　hands　with　him。　He　knew　him　only　by　sight　and　had　no　desire　to　know　him　any　other　way。　As　far　as　he　was　concerned；　the　less　he　knew　about　his　son　the　better；　and　he　hoped　the　feeling　was　mutual。
Nice　poster；　isn't　it？　said　the　editor；　pointing　at　a　large　framed　drawing　on　the　wall　opposite　Tomas。
Tomas　now　glanced　around　the　room。　The　walls　were　hung　with　interesting　pictures；　mostly　photographs　and　posters。　The　drawing　the　editor　had　singled　out　came　from　one　of　the　last　issues　of　his　paper　before　the　Russians　closed　it　down　in　1969。　It　was　an　imitation　of　a　famous　recruitment　poster　from　the　Russian　Civil　War　of　1918　showing　a　soldier；　red　star　on　his　cap　and　extraordinarily　stern　look　in　his　eyes；　staring　straight　at　you　and　aiming　his　index　finger　at　you。　The　original　Russian　caption　read：　Citizen；　have　you　joined　the　Red　Army？　It　was　replaced　by　a　Czech　text　that　read：　Citizen；　have　you　signed　the　Two　Thousand　Words？　
That　was　an　excellent　joke！　The　Two　Thousand　Words　was　the　first　glorious　manifesto　of　the　1968　Prague　Spring。　It　called　for　the　radical　democratization　of　the　Communist　regime。　First　it　was　signed　by　a　number　of　intellectuals；　and　then　other　people　came　forward　and　asked　to　sign；　and　finally　there　were　so　many　signatures　that　no　one　could　quite　count　them　up。　When　the　Red　Army　invaded　their　country　and　launched　a　series　of　political　purges；　one　of　the　questions　asked　of　each　citizen　was　Have　you　signed　the　Two　Thousand　Words？　Anyone　who　admitted　to　having　done　so　was　summarily　dismissed　from　his　job。
A　fine　poster；　said　Tomas。　I　remember　it　well。　Let's　hope　the　Red　Army　man　isn't　listening　in　on　us；　said　the　editor　with　a　smile。
Then　he　went　on；　without　the　smile：　Seriously　though；　this　isn't　my　flat。　It　belongs　to　a　friend。　We　can't　be　absolutely　certain　the　police　can　hear　us；　it's　only　a　possibility。　If　I'd　invited　you　to　my　place；　it　would　have　been　a　certainty。　
Then　he　switched　back　to　a　playful　tone。　But　the　way　I'　look　at　it；　we've　got　nothing　to　hide。　And　think　of　what　a　boon　it　will　be　to　Czech　historians　of　the　future。　The　complete　recorded　lives　of　the　Czech　intelligentsia　on　file　in　the　police　archives！　Do　you　know　what　effort　literary　historians　have　put　into　reconstructing　in　detail　the　sex　lives　of；　say；　Voltaire　or　Balzac　or　Tolstoy？　No　such　problems　with　Czech　writers。　It's　all　on　tape。　Every　last　sigh。　
And　turning　to　the　imaginary　microphones　in　the　wall；　he　said　in　a　stentorian　voice；　Gentlemen；　as　always　in　such　circumstances；　I　wish　to　take　this　opportunity　to　encourage　you　in　your　work　and　to　thank　you　on　my　behalf　and　on　behalf　of　all　future　historians。　
After　the　three　of　them　had　had　a　good　laugh；　the　editor　told　the　story　of　how　his　paper　had　been　banned；　what　the　artist　who　designed　the　poster　was　doing；　and　what　had　become　of　other　Czech　painters；　philosophers；　and　writers。　After　the　Russian　invasion　they　had　been　relieved　of　their　positions　and　become　window　washers；　parking　attendants；　night　watchmen；　boilermen　in　public　buildings；　or　at　best—and　usually　with　pull—taxi　drivers。
Although　what　the　editor　said　was　interesting　enough；　Tomas　was　unable　to　concentrate　on　it。　He　was　thinking　about　his　son。　He　remembered　passing　him　in　the　street　during　the　past　two　months。　Apparently　these　encounters　had　not　been　fortuitous。　He　had　certainly　never　expected　to　find　him　in　the　company　of　a　persecuted　editor。　Tomas's　first　wife　was　an　orthodox　Communist；　and　Tomas　automatically　assumed　that　his　son　was　under　her　influence。　He　knew　nothing　about　him。　Of　course　he　could　have　come　out　and　asked　him　what　kind　of　relationship　he　had　with　his　mother；　but　he　felt　that　it　would　have　been　tactless　in　the　presence　of　a　third　party。
At　last　the　editor　came　to　the　point。　He　said　that　more　and　more　people　were　going　to　prison　for　no　offense　other　than　upholding　their　own　opinions；　and　concluded　with　the　words　And　so　we've　decided　to　do　something。　
What　is　it　you　want　to　do？　asked　Tomas。
Here　his　son　took　over。　It　was　the　first　time　he　had　ever　heard　him　speak。　He　was　surprised　to　note　that　he　stuttered。
According　to　our　sources；　he　said；　political　prisoners　are　being　subjected　to　very　rough　treatment。　Several　are　in　a　bad　way。　And　so　we've　decided　to　draft　a　petition　and　have　it　signed　by　the　most　important　Czech　intellectuals；　the　ones　who　still　mean　something。　
No；　it　wasn't　actually　a　stutter；　it　was　more　of　a　stammer；　slowing　down　the　flow　of　speech；　stressing　or　highlighting　every　word　he　uttered　whether　he　wanted　to　or　not。　He　obviously　felt　himself　doing　it；　and　his　cheeks；　which　had　barely　regained　their　natural　pallor；　turned　scarlet　again。
And　you've　called　me　in　for　advice　on　likely　candidates　in　my　field？　Tomas　asked。
No；　the　editor　said；　laughing。　We　don't　want　your　advice。　We　want　your　signature！　
And　again　he　felt　flattered！　Again　he　enjoyed　the　feeling　that　he　had　not　been　forgotten　as　a　surgeon！　He　protested；　but　only　out　of　modesty；　Wait　a　minute。　Just　because　they　kicked　me　out　doesn't　mean　I'm　a　famous　doctor！　
We　haven't　forgotten　what　you　wrote　for　our　paper；　said　the　editor；　smiling　at　Tomas。
Yes；　sighed　Tomas's