THE SEVENTH
‘God save at least the Siberian tiger,’ he repeated the line of the Vlastimil Třešňák song. No, he couldn’t put it on. The cassette was fixed in the recorder, firmly, so bakelitedly fast. He couldn’t bear the idea of depressing the button, setting the magnetic heads, the whole dry mechanism, in motion, which from the dark, poorly recorded tape would wring out the berserk despair of the singer, speaking to him from his very soul, the singer with the name that sounds like cheap wine. Once again, Martin could drink him up in the park along with his friends on those lazy June evenings, which would come along for sure, as sure as that abominable sweet dessert wine would be opened. It’s horrid, when the sun is shining on the dusty cassette player and you don’t dare press Play, so as
