Caleb Crain - Necessary Errors

— Please, Jacob said. — Please.

Ivan met the appeal with a look of disgust and admitted him. Jacob had waited more than an hour. He told himself he didn’t care what a doorman thought of his willingness to beg.

Once inside, his eyes adjusted slowly. That night, the dance floor was striped with blue and purple lights, which flashed in a lazy rhythm independent of the music, and a few teenagers danced among them industriously, knifing and swaying in high-waisted pants and pajama-like shirts. At the surrounding tables, darker, sat men in their twenties in faded denim jackets, and in the outer belt, near Jacob, stood older men in still quieter clothes — the Czechs pale-skinned, the Germans pink. Jacob ordered a beer from the balding waiter with large glasses, the kind one, whose name was Pavel. Ota had introduced Jacob to him a month ago, explaining that everyone in the bar forgave Pavel for not being gay. The affection implied by the comment had seemed to embarrass the waiter at the time. Pavel did not now show that he remembered the introduction, but he exchanged Jacob’s money for a beer with his usual air of gawky good intention. — Thanks, Jacob said.

— There is no cause for it, the waiter answered.

There was nothing new. The loners held themselves with the same shuffling alertness. Those with friends still kept their chatter loud for the benefit of those who might want to overhear, still directed one another’s stares by nudges, and occasionally gave a girlish scream.

One came from Ota. He was at his usual table in the rear, wearing a thin wool sweater. It was robin’s egg blue, with a black-and-tan argyle pattern covering the chest but not the arms. His curls were waxed with gel and teased higher than usual. As Jacob approached, he saw that Ota was not wearing a T-shirt and that the scratch of the sweater had raised the skin of his neck and cheeks to an irritable and prickly red. The fabric held him so tightly that the outlines of his collarbones and almost his ribs were visible as he turned his head to greet Jacob.

“My prince has come,” Ota said. His audience laughed. “Is that correct?”

“The English is correct,” Jacob answered.

— But you are not my prince, Ota sighed in Czech, taking one of Jacob’s hands in both of his. — It is really a pity.

— You are laughing at me.

— But through tears, Kuba.

Ota named for Jacob the young men at his table. Two were familiar; two, new. One of the new ones, who had the dark coloring of a gypsy, gave Jacob a smile of hungry interest. His hair was long, worn in the early Beatles bowl cut that was becoming fashionable. There was also an older man, a German in a loosened tie. He had a small, prim moustache.

Ota said that the German was a distinguished guest. — But here we have the American ambassador to the Czechoslovak Federal Republic, Ota continued, by way of introducing Jacob. — Shirley Templová! As you see, she is no longer blonde, unfortunately. But she is woman , now.

— I thank you, Jacob said, bowing slightly.

— In fact he is named Kuba, Ota amended. — Like Fidel, who is not a blond either.

“Ahoj,” Jacob saluted the group. The one young man was watching so closely that Jacob felt shy. The German, on the other hand, did not seem to recognize the greeting; either he understood no Czech or he had no interest in Jacob and did not care if he showed it. — But you are a blond, Jacob returned to Ota, because he guessed that Ota was vain on this point tonight.

— Is it not pretty? Ota asked. The gel drew his curls into such tight circlets that his scalp showed clearly beneath them. The curls seemed to lie on his head like something separate, like a necklace laid in a mass on a dresser. They were an empty, pure color, like clean, dry sand.

— Very much so, Jacob agreed.

“Another hit song from the United States,” the DJ announced, interrupting all conversations, in a singsong English he must have learned from recordings. He continued in singsong Czech, a strange thing to hear. He spoke too quickly for Jacob to follow, but what he said made Ota and his friends laugh.

“Sakra,” Ota swore.

— What did he say? asked Jacob.

“Nothing, nothing,” Ota answered in English, as if to insist on the language barrier. “It was something in Czech.”

— I know that, but what did he say?

— Look at how he is staring at us, Ota remarked of the acolyte across the table who seemed interested in Jacob.

— What? this young man responded.

— What? Ota mocked him. — I am quite good to you, he told the young man.

It seemed to please the young man to be told this, and his eyes shifted between Ota and Jacob.

— What did the DJ say? Jacob repeated.

— But do not be dull. It was a silliness. He said that the song was from America, and that we all want to have many ties of international brotherhood.

— As formerly with Russia?

— He did not say that, but as you wish.

— But wasn’t it a joke?

— No, it wasn’t. And for that reason we laughed. Be very pretty, Kuba, and buy me one whiskey. Here you have money.

— Keep your money, I will buy it, Jacob offered.

— Are you sure? It costs twenty-seven crowns.

— That is expensive, Jacob admitted, and took Ota’s money after all.

— So I thought.

The German, seeing the money passed, added money of his own to the table, and indicated by pantomime that he, too, wanted a whiskey and that he would pay for both his and Ota’s. — Is it possible to pay with deutschmarks here? Jacob asked, hesitating to pick up the German bills.

— Of course, Ota said. — Here as everywhere.

The press of men at the bar was thick, but Jacob was approached by Pavel before he got far into it. It seemed crass to pay with foreign currency, but Pavel showed no surprise. To confirm the order, Pavel told him the name of the American whiskey the bar served. Before he could return, Ota appeared at Jacob’s elbow.

— The whiskeys are coming, Jacob assured him.

“I will wait with you,” Ota said in English. “I have question. I have a question, excuse me. Do you like George?”

“George?”

“ . The pretty one. The dark one.”

“Oh. He’s very handsome.”

“Do you want him? He is wishing for you, but you must say now.”

“Why now?”

“You must,” Ota said with simple impatience. “He is, how to say, like a fruit.”

“Ripe.”

“Yes, he is ripe.”

“I don’t know,” Jacob said, deliberating.

“As you like it,” Ota answered. The indifference in his voice seemed unfeigned; it was only as a favor to the young man that he had asked.

“I wasn’t really looking, tonight,” Jacob continued, though Ota was hardly listening. There was an attraction, and Jacob was young enough that it was little trouble to make up the difference between his wishes and an opportunity. But he wasn’t sure.

Ota circled back to his table, and Jacob continued to worry the question alone. It was a relief when Pavel brought the whiskeys.

The negotiations with himself turned out to be pointless. At Ota’s table, he found the young man kissing the German, who bent over the seated youth from behind and slipped a hand between the buttons of his shirt. When the kiss ended, the youth’s eyes followed the German’s departing lips with a false look of adoration and then passed to the whiskeys that Jacob was setting on the table before him. Ota took one. The youth took the other, and the German did not resent the appropriation. Perhaps the German had all along intended to buy it for the boy.

“Schuss,” said the boy, raising his glass to Ota. He made no effort to meet Jacob’s eyes.