生命不能承受之轻-第39部分

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16
How　can　it　be　that　leftist　intellectuals　（because　the　doctor　with　the　mustache　was　nothing　if　not　a　leftist　intellectual）　are　willing　to　march　against　the　interests　of　a　Communist　country　when　Communism　has　always　been　considered　the　left's　domain？
When　the　crimes　of　the　country　called　the　Soviet　Union　became　too　scandalous；　a　leftist　had　two　choices：　either　to　spit　on　his　former　life　and　stop　marching　or　（more　or　less　sheepishly）　to　reclassify　the　Soviet　Union　as　an　obstacle　to　the　Grand　March　and　march　on。
Have　I　not　said　that　what　makes　a　leftist　a　leftist　is　the　kitsch　of　the　Grand　March？　The　identity　of　kitsch　comes　not　from　a　political　strategy　but　from　images；　metaphors；　and　vocabulary。　It　is　therefore　possible　to　break　the　habit　and　march　against　the　interests　of　a　Communist　country。　What　is　impossible；　however；　is　to　substitute　one　word　for　others。　It　is　possible　to　threaten　the　Vietnamese　army　with　one's　fist。　It　is　impossible　to　shout　Down　with　Communism！　Down　with　Communism！　is　a　slogan　belonging　to　the　enemies　of　the　Grand　March；　and　anyone　worried　about　losing　face　must　remain　faithful　to　the　purity　of　his　own　kitsch。
The　only　reason　I　bring　all　this　up　is　to　explain　the　misunderstanding　between　the　French　doctor　and　the　American　actress；　who；　egocentric　as　she　was；　imagined　herself　the　victim　of　envy　or　misogyny。　In　point　of　fact；　the　French　doctor　displayed　a　finely　honed　aesthetic　sensibility：　the　phrases　President　Carter；　our　traditional　values；　the　barbarity　of　Communism　all　belong　to　the　vocabulary　of　American　kitsch　and　have　nothing　to　do　with　the　kitsch　of　the　Grand　March。
17
The　next　morning；　they　all　boarded　buses　and　rode　through　Thailand　to　the　Cambodian　border。　In　the　evening；　they　pulled　into　a　small　village　where　they　had　rented　several　houses　on　stilts。　The　regularly　flooding　river　forced　the　villagers　to　live　above　ground　level；　while　their　pigs　huddled　down　below。　Franz　slept　in　a　room　with　four　other　professors。　From　afar　came　the　oinking　of　the　swine；　from　up　close　the　snores　of　a　famous　mathematician。
In　the　morning；　they　climbed　back　into　the　buses。　At　a　point　about　a　mile　from　the　border；　all　vehicular　traffic　was　prohibited。　The　border　crossing　could　be　reached　only　by　means　of　a　narrow；　heavily　guarded　road。　The　buses　stopped。　The　French　contingent　poured　out　of　them　only　to　find　that　again　the　Americans　had　beaten　them　and　formed　the　vanguard　of　the　parade。　The　crucial　moment　had　come。　The　interpreter　was　recalled　and　a　long　quarrel　ensued。　At　last　everyone　assented　to　the　following：　the　parade　would　be　headed　by　one　American；　one　Frenchman；　and　the　Cambodian　interpreter；　next　would　come　the　doctors；　and　only　then　the　rest　of　the　crowd。　The　American　actress　brought　up　the　rear。
The　road　was　narrow　and　lined　with　minefields。　Every　so　often　it　was　narrowed　even　more　by　a　barrier—two　cement　blocks　wound　round　with　barbed　wire—passable　only　in　single　file。
About　fifteen　feet　ahead　of　Franz　was　a　famous　German　poet　and　pop　singer　who　had　already　written　nine　hundred　thirty　songs　for　peace　and　against　war。　He　was　carrying　a　long　pole　topped　by　a　white　flag　that　set　off　his　full　black　beard　and　set　him　apart　from　the　others。
All　up　and　down　the　long　parade；　photographers　and　cameramen　were　snapping　and　whirring　their　equipment；　dashing　up　to　the　front；　pausing；　inching　back；　dropping　to　their　knees；　then　straightening　up　and　running　even　farther　ahead。　Now　and　then　they　would　call　out　the　name　of　some　celebrity；　who　would　then　unwittingly　turn　in　their　direction　just　long　enough　to　let　them　trigger　their　shutters。
18
Something　was　in　the　air。　People　were　slowing　down　and　looking　back。
The　American　actress；　who　had　ended　up　in　the　rear；　could　no　longer　stand　the　disgrace　of　it　and；　determined　to　take　the　offensive；　was　sprinting　to　the　head　of　the　parade。　It　was　as　if　a　runner　in　a　five…kilometer　race；　who　had　been　saving　his　strength　by　hanging　back　with　the　pack；　had　suddenly　sprung　forward　and　started　overtaking　his　opponents　one　by　one。
The　men　stepped　back　with　embarrassed　smiles；　not　wishing　to　spoil　the　famous　runner's　bid　for　victory；　but　the　women　yelled；　Get　back　in　line！　This　is　no　star　parade！　
Undaunted；　the　actress　pushed　on；　a　suite　of　five　photographers　and　two　cameramen　in　tow。
Suddenly　a　Frenchwoman；　a　professor　of　linguistics；　grabbed　the　actress　by　the　wrist　and　said　（in　terrible…sounding　English）；　This　is　a　parade　for　doctors　who　have　come　to　care　for　mortally　ill　Cambodians；　not　a　publicity　stunt　for　movie　stars！　
The　actress's　wrist　was　locked　in　the　linguistics　professor's　grip；　she　could　do　nothing　to　pry　it　loose。　What　the　hell　do　you　think　you're　doing？　she　said　（in　perfect　English）。　I've　been　in　a　hundred　parades　like　this！　You　won't　get　anywhere　without　stars！　It's　our　job！　Our　moral　obligation！　
Merde　said　the　linguistics　professor　（in　perfect　French）。
The　American　actress　understood　and　burst　into　tears。
Hold　it；　please；　a　cameraman　called　out　and　knelt　at　her　feet。　The　actress　gave　a　long　look　into　his　lens；　the　tears　flowing　down　her　cheeks。
19
When　at　last　the　linguistics　professor　let　go　of　the　American　actress's　wrist；　the　German　pop　singer　with　the　black　beard　and　white　flag　called　out　her　name。
The　American　actress　had　never　heard　of　him；　but　after　being　humiliated　she　was　more　receptive　to　sympathy　than　usual　and　ran　over　to　him。　The　singer　switched　the　pole　to　his　left　hand　and　put　his　right　arm　around　her　shoulders。
They　were　immediately　surrounded　by　new　photographers　and　cameramen。　A　well…known　American　photographer；　having　trouble　squeezing　both　their　faces　and　the　flag　into　his　viewfinder　because　the　pole　was　so　long；　moved　back　a　few　steps　into　the　ricefield。　And　so　it　happened　that　he　stepped　on　a　mine。　An　explosion　rang　out；　and　his　body；　ripped　to　pieces；　went　flying　through　the　air；　raining　a　shower　of　blood　on　the　European　intellectuals。
The　singer　and　the　actress　were　horrified　and　could　not　budge。　They　lifted　their　eyes　to　the　flag。　It　was　spattered　with　blood。　Once　more　they　were　horrified。　Then　they　timidly　ventured　a　few　more　looks　upward　and　began　to　smile　slightly。　They　were　filled　with　a　strange　pride；　a　pride　they　had　never　known　before：　the　flag　they　were　carrying　had　been　consecrated　by　blood。　Once　more　they　joined　the　march。
20
The　border　was　formed　by　a　small　river；　but　because　a　long　wall；　six　feet　high　and　lined　with　sandbags　to　protect　Thai　sharpshooters；　ran　alongside　it；　it　was　invisible。　There　was　only　one　breach　in　the　wall；　at　the　point　where　a　bridge　spanned　the　river。　Vietnamese　forces　lay　in　wait　on　the　other　side；　but　they；　too；　were　invisible；　their　positions　perfectly　camouflaged。　It　was　clear；　however；　that　the　moment　anyone　set　foot　on　the　bridge；　the　invisible　Vietnamese　would　open　fire。
The　parade　participants　went　up　to　the　wall　and　stood　on　tiptoe。　Franz　peered　into　the　gap　between　two　sandbags；　trying　to　see　what　was　going　on。　He　saw　nothing。　Then　he　was　shoved　away　by　a　photographer；　who　felt　that　he　had　more　right　to　the　space。
Franz　looked　back。　Seven　photographers　were　perching　in　the　mighty　crown　of　an　isolated　tree　like　a　flock　of　overgrown　crows；　their　eyes　fixed　on　the　opposite　bank。
Just　then　the　interpreter；　at　the　head　of　the　parade；　raised　a　large　megaphone　to　her　lips　and　called　out　in　Khmer　to　the　other　side：　These　people　are　doctors；　they　request　permission　to　enter　the　territory　of　Cambodia　and　offer　medical　assistance；　they　have　no　political　designs　whatsoever　and　are　guided　solely　by　a　concern　for　human　life。
The　response　from　the　other　side　was　a　stunning　silence。　A　silence　so　absolute　that　everyone's　spirits　sank。　Only　the　cameras　clicked　on；　sounding　in　the　silence　like　the　song　of　an　exotic　insect。
Franz　had　the　sudden　feeling　that　the　Grand　March　was　coming　to　an　end。　Europe　was　surrounded　by　borders　of　silence；　and　the　space　where　the　Grand　March　was　occurring　was　now　no　more　than　a　small　platform　in　the　middle　of　the　planet。　The　crowds　that　had　once　pressed　eagerly　up　to　the　platform　had　long　since　departed；　and　the　Grand　March　went　on　in　solitude；　without　spectators。　Yes；　said　Franz　to　himself；　the　Grand　March　goes　on；　the　world's　indifference　notwithstanding；　but　it　is　growing　nervous　and　hectic：　yesterday　against　the　American　occupation　of　Vietnam；　today　against　the　Vietnamese　occupation　of　Cambodia；　yesterday　for　Israel；　today　for　the　Palestinians；　yesterday　for　Cuba；　tomorrow　against　Cuba—　and　always　against　America；　at　times　against　massacres　and　at　times　in　support　of　other　massacres；　Europe　marches　on；　and　to　keep　up　with　events；　to　leave　none　of　them　out；　its　pace　grows　faster　and　faster；　until　finally　the　Grand　March　is　a　procession　of　rushing；　galloping　people　and　the　platform　is　shrinking　and　shrinking　until　one　day　it　will　be　reduced　to　a　mere　dimension…less　dot。
21
Once　more　the　interpreter　shouted　her　challenge　into　the　megaphone。　And　again　the　response　was　a　boundless　and　endlessly　indifferent　silence。
Franz　looked　in　all　directions。　The　silence　on　the　other　side　of　the　river　had　hit　them　all　like　a　slap　in　the　face。　Even　the　singer　with　the　white　flag　and　the　American　actress　were　depressed；　hesitant　about　what　to　do　next。
In　a　flash　of　insight　Franz　saw　how　laughable　they　all　were；　but　instead　of　cutting　him　off　from　them　or　flooding　him　with　irony；　the　thought　made　him　feel　the　kind　of　infinite　love　we　feel　for　the　condemned。　Yes；　the　Grand　March　was　coming　to　an　end；　but　was　that　any　reason　for　Franz　to　betray　it？　Wasn't　his　own　life　coming　to　an　end　as　well？　Who　was　he　to　jeer　at　the　exhibitionism　of　the　people　accompanying　the　courageous　doctors　to　the　border？　What　could　they　all　do　but　put　on　a　show？　Had　they　any　choice？
Franz　was　right。　I　can't　help　thinking　about　the　editor　in　Prague　who　organized　the　petition　for　the　amnesty　of　political　prisoners。　He　knew　perfectly　well　that　his　petition　would　not　help　the　prisoners。　His　true　goal　was　not　to　free　the　prisoners；　it　was　to　show　that　people　without　fear　still　exist。　That；　too；　was　playacting。　But　he　had　no　other　possibility。　His　choice　was　not　between　playacting　and　action。　His　choice　was　between　playacting　and　no　action　at　all。　There　are　situations　in　which　people　are　condemned　to　playa