Utz by Bruce Chatwin Read Free Book Online

mistake.’

O ne morning in February of 1952, a rap on the door demanded entry for three unwelcome visitors. They were a curator from the Museum; a photographer and an acne-pitted lout who, as Utz guessed, was a member of the secret police.
    For the next two weeks he was a helpless witness while this trio turned the apartment upside down, trampled slush into the carpet, and made an inventory of every object. The curator warned him not to tamper with the labels. If he did so, the collection would be forfeit.
    Utz particularly loathed the photographer: a grim, fanatical young woman with an astigmatism, who had worked herself into a fever of indignation. In her view, he had no business keeping treasures that rightfully belonged to the People.
    â€˜Really?’ he answered. ‘By what right? The right of theft, I suppose?’
    The policeman told him to hold his tongue – or it would be worse for him.
    The photographer converted the room into a makeshift studio, fussing over her plate-camera as though it were a thing beyond price. When Utz accidentally brushed against the lens, she ordered him into the bedroom.
    She may have been a competent photographer: but she was so short-sighted, and so clumsy when handling the porcelains that Utz had to sit on the edge of his bed, numbly waiting for the crash. He begged to be allowed to position each piece in front of the camera. He was told it was none of his business.
    Finally, when the young woman dropped, and smashed the head off, a figure of Watteau’s Gilles, he lost his temper.
    â€˜Take it!’ he snapped. ‘Take it for your horrible museum! I never want to see it again.’
    The photographer shrugged. The policeman wobbled his jowls. The curator went into the bathroom and, returning with a length of lavatory paper, wrapped the head and the torso separately, and put them in his pocket.
    â€˜This piece’, he said, ‘will not appear in the inventory.’
    â€˜Thank you,’ said Utz. ‘Thank you for that!’
    At last, when they had gone, he gazed miserably at his miniature family. He felt abused and assaulted. He felt like the man who, on returning from a journey, finds his house has been burgled. He summoned up a few vague thoughts of suicide. There wasn’t much – was there? – to live for. But no! He wasn’t the type. He would never work up the courage. But could he bring himself to leave the collection? Make a clean break? Begin a new life abroad? He still had money in Switzerland, thank God! Who could tell? In Paris or in New York, he might even begin to collect again.
    He decided, if he could get out, to go.

D uring the Gottwald years, the most reliable method of obtaining an exit visa was to apply for foreign travel on the grounds of ill-health. The procedure was to go to your usual physician, and ask him to diagnose an ailment.
    â€˜Do you suffer from depression?’ Dr Petrasels demanded.
    â€˜Constantly,’ said Utz. ‘I always have.’
    â€˜Doubtless a malfunctioning of the liver,’ said the doctor, who made no effort to examine him further. ‘I advise you to take the cure at Vichy.’
    â€˜But surely . . . ?’ Utz protested. Czechoslovakia was the land of spas. Surely they’d be suspicious? Surely there were waters for the liver at Marienbad? Or at Carlsbad?
    â€˜Far from it,’ the doctor assured him. The visa authorities knew all about the waters of Vichy. Vichy was the place for him.
    â€˜If you say so,’ said Utz, with misgivings.
    The official in the visa department glanced at the medical report; mumbled the word ‘Vichy’ in a disinterested tone, and went to consult the file. A week later, when he returned to the same office, Utz learned he had been given a month’s stay abroad. He undertook not to spread malicious propaganda against the People’s Republic. The porcelain collection would be considered surety for his good behaviour, and