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Franz　looked　back。　Seven　photographers　were　perching　in　the　mighty　crown　of　an　isolated　tree　like　a　flock　of　overgrown　crows；　their　eyes　fixed　on　the　opposite　bank。
Just　then　the　interpreter；　at　the　head　of　the　parade；　raised　a　large　megaphone　to　her　lips　and　called　out　in　Khmer　to　the　other　side：　These　people　are　doctors；　they　request　permission　to　enter　the　territory　of　Cambodia　and　offer　medical　assistance；　they　have　no　political　designs　whatsoever　and　are　guided　solely　by　a　concern　for　human　life。
The　response　from　the　other　side　was　a　stunning　silence。　A　silence　so　absolute　that　everyone's　spirits　sank。　Only　the　cameras　clicked　on；　sounding　in　the　silence　like　the　song　of　an　exotic　insect。
Franz　had　the　sudden　feeling　that　the　Grand　March　was　coming　to　an　end。　Europe　was　surrounded　by　borders　of　silence；　and　the　space　where　the　Grand　March　was　occurring　was　now　no　more　than　a　small　platform　in　the　middle　of　the　planet。　The　crowds　that　had　once　pressed　eagerly　up　to　the　platform　had　long　since　departed；　and　the　Grand　March　went　on　in　solitude；　without　spectators。　Yes；　said　Franz　to　himself；　the　Grand　March　goes　on；　the　world's　indifference　notwithstanding；　but　it　is　growing　nervous　and　hectic：　yesterday　against　the　American　occupation　of　Vietnam；　today　against　the　Vietnamese　occupation　of　Cambodia；　yesterday　for　Israel；　today　for　the　Palestinians；　yesterday　for　Cuba；　tomorrow　against　Cuba—　and　always　against　America；　at　times　against　massacres　and　at　times　in　support　of　other　massacres；　Europe　marches　on；　and　to　keep　up　with　events；　to　leave　none　of　them　out；　its　pace　grows　faster　and　faster；　until　finally　the　Grand　March　is　a　procession　of　rushing；　galloping　people　and　the　platform　is　shrinking　and　shrinking　until　one　day　it　will　be　reduced　to　a　mere　dimension…less　dot。
21
Once　more　the　interpreter　shouted　her　challenge　into　the　megaphone。　And　again　the　response　was　a　boundless　and　endlessly　indifferent　silence。
Franz　looked　in　all　directions。　The　silence　on　the　other　side　of　the　river　had　hit　them　all　like　a　slap　in　the　face。　Even　the　singer　with　the　white　flag　and　the　American　actress　were　depressed；　hesitant　about　what　to　do　next。
In　a　flash　of　insight　Franz　saw　how　laughable　they　all　were；　but　instead　of　cutting　him　off　from　them　or　flooding　him　with　irony；　the　thought　made　him　feel　the　kind　of　infinite　love　we　feel　for　the　condemned。　Yes；　the　Grand　March　was　coming　to　an　end；　but　was　that　any　reason　for　Franz　to　betray　it？　Wasn't　his　own　life　coming　to　an　end　as　well？　Who　was　he　to　jeer　at　the　exhibitionism　of　the　people　accompanying　the　courageous　doctors　to　the　border？　What　could　they　all　do　but　put　on　a　show？　Had　they　any　choice？
Franz　was　right。　I　can't　help　thinking　about　the　editor　in　Prague　who　organized　the　petition　for　the　amnesty　of　political　prisoners。　He　knew　perfectly　well　that　his　petition　would　not　help　the　prisoners。　His　true　goal　was　not　to　free　the　prisoners；　it　was　to　show　that　people　without　fear　still　exist。　That；　too；　was　playacting。　But　he　had　no　other　possibility。　His　choice　was　not　between　playacting　and　action。　His　choice　was　between　playacting　and　no　action　at　all。　There　are　situations　in　which　people　are　condemned　to　playact。　Their　struggle　with　mute　power　（the　mute　power　across　the　river；　a　police　transmogrified　into　mute　microphones　in　the　wall）　is　the　struggle　of　a　theater　company　that　has　attacked　an　army。
Franz　watched　his　friend　from　the　Sorbonne　lift　his　fist　and　threaten　the　silence　on　the　other　side。
22
For　the　third　time　the　interpreter　shouted　her　challenge　into　the　megaphone。
The　silence　she　again　received　in　response　suddenly　turned　Franz's　depression　into　rage。　Here　he　was；　standing　only　a　few　steps　from　the　bridge　joining　Thailand　to　Cambodia；　and　he　felt　an　overwhelming　desire　to　run　out　onto　it；　scream　bloodcurdling　curses　to　the　skies；　and　die　in　a　great　clatter　of　gunfire。
That　sudden　desire　of　Franz's　reminds　us　of　something；　yes；　it　reminds　us　of　Stalin's　son；　who　ran　to　electrocute　himself　on　the　barbed　wire　when　he　could　no　longer　stand　to　watch　the　poles　of　human　existence　come　so　close　to　each　other　as　to　touch；　when　there　was　no　longer　any　difference　between　sublime　and　squalid；　angel　and　fly。　God　and　shit。
Franz　could　not　accept　the　fact　that　the　glory　of　the　Grand　March　was　equal　to　the　comic　vanity　of　its　marchers；　that　the　exquisite　noise　of　European　history　was　lost　in　an　infinite　silence　and　that　there　was　no　longer　any　difference　between　history　and　silence。　He　felt　like　placing　his　own　life　on　the　scales；　he　wanted　to　prove　that　the　Grand　March　weighed　more　than　shit。
But　man　can　prove　nothing　of　the　sort。　One　pan　of　the　scales　held　shit；　on　the　other；　Stalin's　son　put　his　entire　body。　And　the　scales　did　not　move。
Instead　of　getting　himself　shot；　Franz　merely　hung　his　head　and　went　back　with　the　others；　single　file；　to　the　buses。
23
We　all　need　someone　to　look　at　us。　We　can　be　divided　into　four　categories　according　to　the　kind　of　look　we　wish　to　live　under。
The　first　category　longs　for　the　look　of　an　infinite　number　of　anonymous　eyes；　in　other　words；　for　the　look　of　the　public。　That　is　the　case　with　the　German　singer；　the　American　actress；　and　even　the　tall；　stooped　editor　with　the　big　chin。　He　was　accustomed　to　his　readers；　and　when　one　day　the　Russians　banned　his　newspaper；　he　had　the　feeling　that　the　atmosphere　was　suddenly　a　hundred　times　thinner。　Nothing　could　replace　the　look　of　unknown　eyes。　He　thought　he　would　suffocate。　Then　one　day　he　realized　that　he　was　constantly　being　followed；　bugged；　and　surreptitiously　photographed　in　the　street。　Suddenly　he　had　anonymous　eyes　on　him　and　he　could　breathe　again！　He　began　making　theatrical　speeches　to　the　microphones　in　his　wall。　In　the　police；　he　had　found　his　lost　public。
The　second　category　is　made　up　of　people　who　have　a　vital　need　to　be　looked　at　by　many　known　eyes。　They　are　the　tireless　hosts　of　cocktail　parties　and　dinners。　They　are　happier　than　the　people　in　the　first　category；　who；　when　they　lose　their　public；　have　the　feeling　that　the　lights　have　gone　out　in　the　room　of　their　lives。　This　happens　to　nearly　all　of　them　sooner　or　later。　People　in　the　second　category；　on　the　other　hand；　can　always　come　up　with　the　eyes　they　need。　Marie…Claude　and　her　daughter　belong　in　the　second　category。
Then　there　is　the　third　category；　the　category　of　people　who　need　to　be　constantly　before　the　eyes　of　the　person　they　love。　Their　situation　is　as　dangerous　as　the　situation　of　people　in　the　first　category。　One　day　the　eyes　of　their　beloved　will　close；　and　the　room　will　go　dark。　Tereza　and　Tomas　belong　in　the　third　category。
And　finally　there　is　the　fourth　category；　the　rarest；　the　category　of　people　who　live　in　the　imaginary　eyes　of　those　who　are　not　present。　They　are　the　dreamers。　Franz；　for　example。　He　traveled　to　the　borders　of　Cambodia　only　for　Sabina。　As　the　bus　bumped　along　the　Thai　road；　he　could　feel　her　eyes　fixed　on　him　in　a　long　stare。
Tomas's　son　belongs　in　the　same　category。　Let　me　call　him　Simon。　（He　will　be　glad　to　have　a　Biblical　name；　like　his　father's。）　The　eyes　he　longed　for　were　Tomas's。　As　a　result　of　his　embroilment　in　the　petition　campaign；　he　was　expelled　from　the　university。　The　girl　he　had　been　going　out　with　was　the　niece　of　a　village　priest。　He　married　her；　became　a　tractor　driver　on　a　collective　farm；　a　practicing　Catholic；　and　a　father。　When　he　learned　that　Tomas；　too；　was　living　in　the　country；　he　was　thrilled：　fate　had　made　their　lives　symmetrical！　This　encouraged　him　to　write　Tomas　a　letter。　He　did　not　ask　him　to　write　back。　He　only　wanted　him　to　focus　his　eyes　on　his　life。
24
Franz　and　Simon　are　the　dreamers　of　this　novel。　Unlike　Franz；　Simon　never　liked　his　mother。　From　childhood　he　searched　for　his　father。　He　was　willing　to　believe　his　father　the　victim　of　some　sort　of　injustice　that　predated　and　explained　the　injustice　his　father　had　perpetrated　on　him。　He　never　felt　angry　with　his　father；　because　he　did　not　wish　to　ally　himself　with　his　mother；　who　continually　maligned　the　man。
He　lived　with　her　until　he　was　eighteen　and　had　finished　secondary　school；　then　he　went　off　to　Prague　and　the　university。　By　that　time　Tomas　was　washing　windows。　Often　Simon　would　wait　long　hours　to　arrange　an　accidental　encounter　with　Tomas。　But　Tomas　never　stopped　to　talk　to　him。
The　only　reason　he　became　involved　with　the　big…chinned　former　editor　was　that　the　editor's　fate　reminded　him　of　his　father's。　The　editor　had　never　heard　of　Tomas。　The　Oedipus　article　had　been　forgotten。　It　was　Simon　who　told　him　about　it　and　asked　him　to　persuade　Tomas　to　sign　the　petition。　The　only　reason　the　editor　agreed　was　that　he　wanted　to　do　something　nice　for　the　boy；　whom　he　liked。
Whenever　Simon　thought　back　to　the　day　when　they　had　met；　he　was　ashamed　of　his　stage　fright。　His　father　couldn't　have　liked　him。　He；　on　the　other　hand；　liked　his　father。　He　remembered　his　every　word；　and　as　time　went　on　he　saw　how　true　they　were。　The　words　that　made　the　biggest　impression　on　him　were　Punishing　people　who　don't　know　what　they've　done　is　barbaric。　When　his　girlfriend's　uncle　put　a　Bible　in　his　hands；　he　was　particularly　struck　by　Jesus'　words　Forgive　them；　for　they　know　not　what　they　do。　He　knew　that　his　fath