Caleb Crain - Necessary Errors

— Did she say why? In a note?

— No. Did your friend?

— I think, that no, said Jacob.

thoughtfully twisted her mesh bag into a ball. — My friend was a dissident. The parents did not want me to see her, because of it. But I saw her.

— Were you a dissident?

— Me? She pointed to herself and widened her eyes, as if he had suggested that she knew how to repair a car engine. — No, no. She was much smarter than I. But she was my friend, and I saw her. But she wouldn’t get out of bed. It was very hard. She was an orphan — do you know that word?

— Yes. It seems that your friend was depressed.

— Yes, and now it is we who are depressed, we who were not dissidents. Is ‘fair’!

The word férový is formed by adding to the English word fair the standard Czech suffix for adjectives, and ’s use of it seemed to Jacob to make a humorous reference to the changing standards of judgment.

* * *

On Wednesday morning Luboš visited as a surprise. He was brought to Jacob’s door by . “Your friend is here,” she said, in the formal tone of voice she used in the presence of others, “but I tell him, that you are ill.”

— I am only here to see you with my own eyes, Luboš quickly reassured Jacob in Czech. — It is for you to say whether I stay for a few moments. Are you well enough?

— You will stay all day, if you have it free, Jacob insisted. For a moment he feared that the enthusiasm of his welcome would betray him to , but she seemed to see in it no more than a conventional exaggeration, a signal to her that for the moment he didn’t need her protection.

After withdrew, Luboš and Jacob at first remained stiff with each other, as if unsure of their privacy. Or perhaps Luboš still felt unsure of his welcome. To Jacob the mere presence of Luboš, by violating the apartment’s quietness and isolation, meant sexual possibility. It was a good morning, Jacob thought to himself; he was strong enough. He wanted to seat Luboš in the sun that was flooding the kitchen and kiss him slowly.

The sun reminded him that he had no photographs of Luboš. —Can I take your picture? he asked.

— Oh, Kuba.

— So that I will remember you when I’m back in America.

— It’s a kind of cruelty, then, and not so much a flattery.

— A flattery, too. I wouldn’t want to remember if you weren’t so beautiful.

He stood Luboš in the kitchen, with its white kitchen walls and table, so that the illumination would be general. He was aware that he wanted a picture of Luboš in order to show it off in a future he couldn’t yet imagine, and he thought confusedly that it was better to take the photograph now, before they had sex, if that was in fact what they were about to do, in case the gun kicked again and the attraction he wanted to capture was compromised. But he didn’t think the gun would kick; his lust felt heavy with momentum.

Through the viewfinder of his Minolta, he saw that the staging of the photograph was setting Luboš even further into himself — the diplomat advancing, the animal retreating.

— But do not seem that way, Jacob said. — Be here with me.

There was a flash of near anger in Luboš’s features, the best state of their rough beauty, and Jacob photographed it. He took another as the interruption subsided.

— Is there a problem? Jacob asked.

— There is nothing.

— I want to embrace you.

— Well, then.

After a while, Luboš interrupted. — Your neighbors, Kuba, he said, meaning the open window rather than anyone in particular.

Jacob didn’t think the window was the problem. — It is one to me if you are with anyone else.

— Don’t be so worldly, Luboš replied. — It’s not what I like about you.

— I want, for it to be free between us. It’s only for happiness between us.

— Happiness is so serious, in your conversation.

— I’m American, Jacob shrugged.

Luboš lifted the Minolta from around Jacob’s neck. — And now I a picture of you, which only you will see.

— What do you mean? You’ll be able to see it in two weeks. There’s a shop in Národní.

Luboš smoothed the cowlick on Jacob’s forehead. — Perhaps in two weeks, then. Say sýr. I imagine, that no one else takes your picture.

— It doesn’t occur to anyone else.

— Thus let it remain.

They made out a little more, but then Jacob felt dizzy and had to lie down. Luboš brought him a glass of water and sat on the floor beside him.

— How is your business? Jacob asked.

— Collin says, that we are too slow.

— There are others in the same business?

— There will be many.

— And what is it, the business? Luboš would forgive Jacob’s inability to remember.

— A kind of trade.

— Import and export, Jacob said, and he rolled over grumpily.

— You do not like Collin, Luboš observed.

— No.

— I too do not.

— Why not? Jacob asked, still facing away, studying the coarse threads of the fabric covering the sofa cushions.

— Do you know, what a neschopenka is?

— Yes, Jacob answered, turning back because he was curious. — I had to get one.

— The other partner, the third partner as you call him, is a doctor. He gives neschopenky for money. Do you understand? The police are looking for him.

— I understand.

— It’s difficult to explain.

— But I understand. It’s not so difficult.

— They’re not good people, Kuba, he said, as if he were still not sure whether he had put it simply enough.

— Let them drop.

Luboš shrugged. — It’s a question of possibilities. A kind of sullenness came over his features as he said this, and then the old smile covered it.

For Jacob, watching, it was as if he finally discerned the music that a noise had been interfering with — as if the music overcame the noise just long enough for him to pick out the tune. — You’re afraid, that I will leave, he said. — It isn’t that you don’t care for me.

— Oh, you aren’t leaving soon.

— And so you can’t break with them, he persisted.

Luboš paused before replying. — They and I, we know each other a longer time, he said, more quietly.

It was a new kind of check to Jacob; it was like a problem in economics. However shabby Collin was as a person, he had given himself; he had gone so far as to risk incrimination. Jacob, in comparison, had offered no more than a provisional promise to stay in the country. Luboš had been able to see the limitation before he could. It was perhaps the freedom to put off meaning it that had attracted Luboš to Jacob. Luboš had probably never ventured before into caring for a person who played with so little at stake.

— But if I stayed…, Jacob began. — America isn’t necessary for me. I only want to be a writer.

— In fact you don’t understand, Luboš said.

But Jacob thought he did. He thought that they were both sorry about what was dividing them, and that they could be together in their sorrow over it, at least. They lay down on the basis of the somewhat willful misunderstanding.

* * *

Jacob was summoned one morning to the Stehlíks’ telephone. “Were you planning to teach the lesson on the subjunctive to your advanced students?” Melinda asked. “As your substitute I need to know.”