Caleb Crain - Necessary Errors

“What about you?” Jacob asked.

“I mean to, but the days go by, don’t they. Your saying so made me think of it.”

“I keep thinking I’ll write something about my friend.”

“Which friend would that be?”

“The one who…”

“Oh yes. Would you like to come to Dublin with me, by the way? It’ll be a fine time.”

“What would I do with Václav?”

“We get along quite well, my mother and I. I know it’s usual for people to row with their mothers, but she and I never do. She’s a very tolerant person.”

“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

“I’m not worried. It is an offer, if you like.”

Her concern embarrassed him, and he wondered what had prompted him to mention his moments of idleness. They weren’t a source of anxiety; they were somehow pure. Maybe he was afraid of losing them. He decided to try to write something while his friends were away. That would be a good use of the time, he thought. In the event, however, he didn’t write a word.

* * *

In the new year, Carl arrived. airport was on the other side of the city from Jacob’s apartment, at the end of a long and tedious journey by tram, subway, and bus. Though Jacob himself had arrived in the country by train, he had been to the airport once before, to pick up a package of books and clothes that his mother had sent by freight mail. On that trip, he had waited in line for his package in a basement office, where half a dozen women had sat talking and eating their lunches amid ringing telephones. From time to time, one of the women silenced the phone at her desk by sightlessly lifting the receiver an inch from its cradle and then replacing it. After a while someone asked Jacob what he wanted and then told him that his package was probably in an adjacent garage where packages were sorted into heaps according to day of arrival.

This journey promised to be more pleasant. Melinda had offered to play chauffeur, for one thing. And unlike the international freight office, the passenger terminal was a part of the country’s public face, and as a matter of national pride, it was likely to be efficient and maybe even relatively cheerful.

They were able to park by the curb just outside the terminal, a low, glass-fronted box from the 1960s. The city’s name stood in widely spaced metal letters atop the overhanging roof. Arrivals were at the far end of the building, and they walked the hundred yards or so of its length inside, to spare themselves the winter wind.

“Is he tall?”

“No.”

“Short?”

“No. My height.”

“Any distinguishing features?”

“He had little round glasses the last time I saw him.”

“So he looks just like you. Does he wear plaid shirts in vivid colors, as well?”

“I thought you liked my shirts.”

“I adore them. Nezlob se, .”

“What does that mean, exactly?” It was something Luboš used to say.

“‘Don’t be angry.’”

“I thought there might be more to it.”

“It’s quite useful. You say it instead of apologizing. Is he a looker?”

“A looker,” Jacob echoed.

“I thought there was a chance he might be, given, you know.”

“We’re just friends.”

“Annie did tell me. I mean because you were taken with him at first. Annie did tell me that as well?”

“He has the kind of face you take an interest in.”

“Even more dangerous.”

“Why are you asking?”

“Oh, I don’t know. So as to be able to help, should you have trouble spotting him in these massive crowds,” she said lightly. Beside them at the rope barrier, only a few other people stood waiting.

Between the rope and the translucent white doors that hid customs ran a long expanse of tiled floor. Half an hour after Carl’s flight landed, people began to file down it. Most were young and carried backpacks.

“There he is,” Jacob told Melinda. “In the dark blue pea coat.”

Carl recognized Jacob and flashed a hello with an open palm. He was walking toward them slowly, weighed down by a red polyester backpack that projected a foot above his head. His mouth had set with the effort of travel, but it began to soften as he approached. His eyes took on the self-consciousness of someone who is delaying a greeting. Jacob found himself aware that he and Melinda probably had the same look of anticipation, which could be mistaken for guardedness. Carl would see Jacob thinner than he remembered him, because of Jacob’s illness, and he would see, standing beside him, a beautiful young Englishwoman whose white scarf called out the faintly purple blood that colored her lips.

In fact, when Jacob turned to check, he saw that Melinda had unwound the scarf. The hollow at the base of her neck where her collarbones met was pale and delicate. She caught his eye on her and without comment returned her gaze to Carl.

“How are you, man?” Carl said, almost singing the words, as he always did when he spoke.

They embraced. “I’m so glad you’re here,” said Jacob. He introduced Melinda.

She gave Carl her hand, and as he took it, the two of them both smiled at her formality. Because Jacob knew both of them well, without their knowing each other, the reserve between them seemed like an illusion to him. He had the sense that he was watching friends perform a play.

“Pleasure,” said Melinda.

“Likewise,” he answered.

“Melinda’s giving us a ride in her car,” Jacob explained.

“Awesome. I’m ready to go.”

The wind, cold and astringent, seemed to have swept the sky clear. They squinted against the sun and against dust kicked up from a narrow traffic island in front of the terminal, where an orange soil had been laid down but not seeded, and they hugged their coats to themselves instead of fastening them.

“How was your flight?” Jacob asked, once Melinda had started the engine.

“The best part was the end. You exit the plane on one of those little staircases. It’s like you’re Nixon in China. You’re the president.”

“Did you kiss the ground?” Melinda asked, studying him in her rearview mirror.

“I don’t know if Czechoslovakia and I know each other that well yet.”

“I suppose it’s the pope as does that, isn’t it.”

“He’s Polish, right?” Carl asked.

“Mmm,” said Melinda.

“Hey, don’t make fun of me yet. I just got here.” He laughed at himself and leaned back in his seat. “I’m in the unreal stage,” he narrated. “This is Prague. I can’t believe I’m in Prague .”

“The little mother with claws,” Jacob said.

“What’s that?”

“That’s what Kafka called it.”

“Nice,” said Carl. The road took them past close-nestled suburban houses in gray and white stucco, the sort the Czechs call villas. A few residents had put up signs in German advertising rooms for rent. “Is this it?” Carl asked. “Is this the little mother herself?”

“I don’t know a more scenic route, sorry,” Melinda said. “Unless Jacob can find one in the map. Which is in the pocket in the door, I believe,” she prompted.

“No, no, please,” Carl said. “I just didn’t know if we were in the city proper. Thank you for the ride, by the way. It’s most excellent.”

“There are a number of us who will do anything for Mr. Putnam, you will find.”

“What if I want to take it personally?” Carl asked.

“I’m sorry?” Melinda replied.