THE BASS SAXOPHONE by Josef Škvorecký Page B

subject, but the hot-shot, with little consideration for the man’s feelings, declared that everybody does that and any fool would guess it right off; his own suggestion was that we take the Pope’s left shoe as the subject. But the draftsman’s wife decided that too few attributes of the object were known, such as the material, the shape, the color, and so forth. “No,” she said. “We have to use something easier, so theones who’ve never played the game will see how it’s done.” The schoolteacher and the wife of the clothing-store manager had declared they didn’t know the game. The manager’s wife was probably telling the truth, but not so the schoolteacher. I looked at him; he had the expression of a fat man forced to be It in a game of tag, totally at the mercy of slimmer players and destined to plod heavy and wheezing among human bodies tauntingly flitting past until someone takes pity on his helplessness and allows himself to be caught. He was lying. Obviously and visibly. He knew how to play the game. But he probably didn’t like to play it. I knew why some people didn’t like to play it. Not fat people, people who are slow in other ways. He was nervous. Then he noticed I was looking at him and suggested his suitcase, to keep up appearances.
    “No,” said the draftsman’s wife, “that would be too easy. How about the Ping-Pong table in the recreation center?”
    The draftsman was called in and he started with a query as to the concrete or abstract nature of the object.
    “It’s concrete,” said his wife. A second later, the schoolteacher nodded. The wife of the clothing-store manager looked at the draftsman’s wife with an uncertain questioning smile. Her eyes showed as much intelligence as those of the schoolteacher, butthey lacked the nervousness. She displayed only wondering ignorance.
    “Is it in Czechoslovakia?” asked the draftsman.
    “It is,” replied the schoolteacher, the manager’s wife, and the hot-shot in unison.
    “Is it in Prague?” asked the draftsman.
    “No,” replied the chorus, this time without the schoolteacher.
    “Is it in K.?” asked the draftsman. (K. was the place we had just left, where the recreation center was.)
    “No,” replied the schoolteacher quickly.
    “Oh, but it is!” the wife of the clothing-store manager corrected him with wondering reproof. “We said it’s the —”
    “Shhh, Mrs. M.!” exclaimed the draftsman’s wife. “Yes, it’s in K.,” she told her husband.
    “Then why did you say it wasn’t?” the manager’s wife asked, in the petulant voice of the naïve. “When it really is?”
    “I just wanted to mix him up a bit,” said the schoolteacher.
    “But that’s against the rules,” said the draftsman’s wife. “It wouldn’t work that way.”
    “That’s just what makes it exciting,” he replied.
    “Oh, no,” said the draftsman’s wife. “The point of the game is in having to answer truthfully, but in not being able to ask directly. So it’s up to the personto show how smart he is at asking indirect questions.”
    “But if he gets a little mixed up it would be much more fun,” said the schoolteacher.
    “And then how would you want him to guess what it is, smartaleck?” asked the hot-shot. “You just wait till you’re the one asking questions.”
    “All right, let’s go on,” said the draftsman’s wife.
    “Is it in the recreation center building?” continued the draftsman, and then with several practiced questions he determined what the object was. To someone new at the game it looked almost like clairvoyance, but it was simply the result of logic and experienced instinct. All the same, some were surprised.
    “You really are clever, Mr. N.!” exclaimed the store manager’s wife.
    “It’s not cleverness,” the draftsman replied modestly, “you just have to ask the right questions, from the general down to the specific, and in a little while you’ve got it.”
    Then it was the hot-shot’s turn. I