Men in Space by Tom McCarthy Read Free Book Online Page B

up some speed later that night, and to meet him in Újezd at 2 a.m. Ivan and Jan went to see a band called The Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian play in Futurum, where they stayed till one, one-thirty. Then they headed back across the river to meet Hájek, who stood them up – but sent a message, via a student named Karel, that he’d be in the Denní Bar on Karlovo Náměstí at three, with drugs. They turned up there at three-fifteen, with an old black queen named Tyrone from San Francisco who they’d met in Újezd, apparently a theatre director who, it turned out, Jan had interviewed on the radio this afternoon – or was it yesterday by now? It must be almost four …
    The Denní bar has blacked-out windows. Its ceiling is studded with luminous stars, moons and comets. A single surly waiter slinks around beneath these. At one table sits a group of young Americans Ivan sometimes sees playing on Karlův Most. They’ve got guitars propped up against their seats and coins stacked on the table top in front of them. The one with the longest hair is tearing strips of paper foil from the inside of a cigarette pack and wrapping matches up in these. After resting five or six of the mini contraptions in a row againsttwo matchboxes, so that the matchsticks face upwards at a forty-five degree-angle, he flicks a lighter open and holds it to each wrapper in turn, moving down the row. As the foil heats up, the unstruck matches inside combust and shoot like flares or rockets to the ceiling before dropping, burnt out, onto other tables. The pyrotechnician’s friends chuckle and hide behind each other when people turn around; some of them start building their own match stick mortars. At another table Sláva Kinček sits in Vuarnet shades, although it’s so dark you can hardly see your hand. He’s got an advertising colleague with him: American, mid-forties, big white teeth. They’re talking about visuals for some campaign. Every so often Sláva calls across to Ivan as he references some image or other:
    “Rauschenberg, right, Ivan? The collage guy …”
    As Ivan nods or shakes his head, correcting him, Sláva turns to his colleague, jerks his thumb back towards Ivan and announces:
    “Best artist of his generation. Hero of the revolution too …”
    “Hero?” repeats Tyrone. “I love heroes.” He’s brought Hájek’s blond-locked messenger from Újezd with him. “There’s a party on tomorrow night,” he says, “in the atelier of this French painter called Jean-Luc. He’s a hero.”
    Ivan knows about the party already. Everyone does. That band he just saw in Futurum will be playing there. They had some song about spinning around: its melody replays across his mind as he watches Tyrone’s mouth move, watches his hand resting on the blond boy’s shoulders, then looks up at the luminous stars. He lay with Klárá for a long time that day up in Šárka, watching stars hanging in the sky and trying to work out how many revolutions they’d winked down on. They argued about the colour of the sky’s darkness, whether it was black or blue – strictly speaking, pigment-wise …
    The Denní Bar’s door opens and Hájek strides in. He has long, messy hair and a morose grin which reminds Ivan ofhis brother’s. He clocks Jan and Ivan, stops the waiter and orders a drink, then comes over to sit with them.
    “Hey people.”
    No apology. He doesn’t need to proffer one: he’s got the goods.
    “Where have you been tonight?” asks Jan.
    “Up at Pod Stalinem.”
    “That’s where you’re doing your performance,” Jan tells Tyrone, in English.
    “What’s that?” Tyrone is busy stroking Karel’s sleeping head, crooked on his shoulder.
    “Your theatre piece. In the club under the old Stalin Monument. Where the giant metronome is now.”
    “Oh yes! And you know what? Karel here’s going to be in it! Karel! Wake up!” His shoulder pushes Karel’s head away; Karel jolts awake, sees Hájek and then looks round all of them,