There Was Still Love

by Favel Parrett

  Spartakiáda was on TV about fifty times over the next week. Packages of it and highlights and even the whole damn thing. Uncle Bill refused to watch it. Luděk had to admit that it did look better on TV because at the stadium it had been impossible to see the details. At the stadium, you could only really appreciate the formations, the shapes. But on the TV you could see up close – the muscles, the strain, the incredible strength used. And you could see each human face. Not just one mass at all.

  And at the end, the camera zoomed in on one soldier’s face. He had blond hair, his skin beaded with sweat, and he closed his eyes and held himself still while the crowd roared and clapped and screamed. But then his mouth twitched, and for a brief moment, the young soldier smiled.

  He had forgotten, in all the applause, that he was not a man. He was a soldier, part of the huge machine. And soldiers did not smile. He had forgotten that he was just a tiny part of the whole, and he was nothing without his comrades.

  It was their last night already. Aunty Máňa and Uncle Bill were leaving in the morning before he’d be awake, and the summer had slipped away.

  Luděk shook Uncle Bill’s hand in the kitchen and said goodnight. It was a firm shake, a real one, Uncle Bill’s large hand clasped tight around his. He would miss this man. This tall, booming man. It was like having his very own grandpa, one that did not boss him around or treat him like a baby. He had even played cards with Luděk and taught him a new game, one that he could play on his own when he was bored. It was called patience.

  Uncle Bill let go of his hand.

  ‘Don’t ever take up smoking a pipe,’ he said, and it was such a strange thing to say that it made Luděk laugh. Why the hell would he ever smoke a pipe?

  Aunty Máňa grabbed him and hugged him so tightly that she nearly squeezed him to death. Then she asked if she could put him to bed because she wanted to tell him a story. He had not been told a story for a long time. He couldn’t even remember how long. He guessed it had been one of Mama’s stories.

  He read to himself now that he was old enough, and Babi was proud that he could read. And he liked reading, but sometimes he missed stories being told to him – voice and words washing over him. He could close his eyes and rest and just listen. He would often fall asleep before the end of the story and never find out what happened. He would fall deep into the story somewhere along the way, and dream and fly until the morning.

  Luděk lifted up the quilt and slid into his small bed. The sheets felt cool against his bare feet and he stretched his legs out.

  Aunty Máňa sat on the bed. In the soft lamplight, she could have been Babi – her outline, her shape. She even smelt like Babi, like hairspray and talcum powder. It was only the slightest accent, the small hesitation in her words that gave her away every now and then. That pause told you that she had been away for a very long time, that she had been gone and only speaking her language in her dreams. And sometimes now the words did not come so easily to her mouth. Sometimes her words got lost and all she could do was stare after them and hope they would come back.

  ‘Are you comfortable?’ she asked, and Luděk nodded. He was impatient for the story to start.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘on the darkest night, when there is a black moon, all the statues of Prague come to life.’

  Luděk rolled his eyes. Not this old one again. Another story about statues coming to life and getting revenge. How dumb did Aunty think he was? He wished he could just read his own book now, and not be told baby stories.

  Aunty Máňa cleared her voice. ‘This is a story about a statue that came to life so he could save a small child from death.’

  Luděk blinked against the lamplight.

  ‘Do you know where the statue of Atlas is?’ Aunty Máňa asked, and he shook his head. He had never seen this statue before. He did not know it.

  ‘Atlas is not far away from where you sleep.’

  ‘In the Kampa?’ he asked. Maybe Atlas was a statue he had missed somehow.

  ‘No, but close. He sits on top of an arched gateway, down a narrow lane, and he watches over a secret garden.’

  ‘But where?’ Luděk asked.

  Aunty did not answer.

  Maybe this was a new story, one Luděk did not know. Now he wanted to hear all of it. He wanted to know. He let himself sink down in his bed. He closed his eyes and listened.

  ‘Did you know that Atlas is a Titan, a type of God, and he carries the whole of the sky and the heavens on his shoulders? He holds it all up using his incredible strength. And with great effort and strain, he keeps it above us. He does not let the celestial sphere fall down and crush the Earth.’

  Luděk did not understand what a celestial sphere was, but he decided maybe it was just the sky – the sky and space and maybe the planets as well. Atlas, a God who held up space.

  ‘A long time ago, there was a little girl who liked to play in the secret garden. One day she looked up and noticed Atlas for the first time. She saw the huge weight he carried on his shoulders and she felt so sorry for him. She could see the strain on his face, the strain in his large muscles, his bent over back. She decided she would come to the archway every day and talk to him. She would say hello and stand under Atlas so that he was not alone. Sometimes she would leave him a wildflower that she had picked. A white flower, sometimes a purple flower, sometimes a yellow one. She would leave the flowers at the bottom of the gate so Atlas could look down and see that she had been there.

  ‘This girl visited Atlas for many months. And she wished that she could reach Atlas, get closer, stroke his cheek. But he was so high up – he was high above her head, stuck on his archway, and the girl could not even reach his feet. She would never be able to touch him, even if she grew to be ten feet tall. All she could do was talk to Atlas, stand beneath him, witness his pain.

  ‘“I hope you know that I am here,” she would say. “I am just a small girl, but I see you. You are not alone.”

  ‘Atlas would never answer.

  ‘Then one day, the girl realised she had stayed too long in the garden and it was suddenly dark. She had to get home before her mama became worried. So she ran from the gate, ran as fast as she could, along the cobbled laneway and out onto the road. And at that very moment, a horse and cart were racing down the road, racing right towards the girl in the dark. She stood frozen, unable to move. It seemed that she would be crushed right there, killed, and her mama would be sad for the rest of her days. Sad and all alone.

  ‘But just as the horse and cart were right on her, someone pulled her out of the way. It was Atlas. He had thrown the heavens from his shoulders and had leapt down from his arch. He’d taken three giant steps and snatched the small girl up in his arms. The horse and cart sped past, missing the girl by a whisker. A moment.

  ‘Atlas had come to life.

  ‘He looked down at the girl, his only friend in the whole city. The only one who saw him. And the girl reached up and stroked his cheek. She was finally able to touch her giant.

  ‘Atlas shed a tear.

  ‘He put the girl down safely on the pavement. He bowed to her, then he turned and picked up the celestial sphere. He climbed up to his place on the arch and became frozen once more. A stone Titan carrying the sky and the heavens on his shoulders for all of time.

  ‘The girl ran home and told her mama that Atlas had saved her life. And from that day on, the girl and her mama left flowers at the gate for Atlas, to say thank you and to remind him that he was not alone.’

  Aunty Máňa stopped talking then. Luděk could hear her heavy breath. He stayed still. Was that the end of the story? He wanted there to be more. What happened when the girl grew up? Did Atlas ever come to life again? Is he still holding up the sky?

  Luděk sat up.

  ‘Was that girl you?’ he asked.

  He could see Aunty start to smile. She gently pushed him back and he lay down again against his pillow.

  ‘The story is not over,’ she said.

  ‘When Atlas threw
the sphere off his shoulders to save the girl, it left a big crater in the stone pathway below the arch. That crater is still there today. When it rains, the crater fills up with clean water from the heavens. It is said that when a bird drinks from that water, it can sing and understand all the songs of this world.

  ‘It is also said that if a man drinks from the water, he will understand all the stories and all the languages of this world.’

  ‘Where is it? Where is Atlas?’ Luděk asked.

  Aunty Máňa smiled. ‘Time for sleep now,’ she said.

  ‘Was the girl you?’ Luděk asked again. He looked at her face, looked right in her eyes. They stayed perfectly still. She never gave anything away, just like Babi.

  She kissed him on the forehead and turned off the lamp.

  ‘How will I find Atlas if you don’t tell me where he is?’ Luděk said.

  He heard the floorboards creak under her feet as she walked to the door.

  ‘You will find him one day,’ she said. ‘Now go to sleep.’

  Then she was gone.

  The bed was warm now, almost too hot. Luděk turned over and listened to the adults talking. He could make out no words, just the hum of voices. It was nice to have voices in the flat. Real voices, and not just the television telling you this and telling you that. It was nice for Babi to have people to talk to every night. Friends. Family. Her sister. Máňa and Eva. Eva and Máňa. With a white streak like lightning in their hair.

  Uncle Bill and Aunty Máňa would be gone tomorrow, and they would not come back for a very long time. They lived far away and they had to save the money to come again. They would not come back for three years, maybe four, and Luděk would be old by then. He would be far too old for bedtime stories. He would be far too old for Atlas.

  He fell asleep to the song of voices singing softly about the past, and about the present, voices that were too scared to make any plans for any future because they knew they had no power over it. They knew they had no power over anything.

  The flat was quiet when he woke. It was late. He’d been in a total blackout, falling through nothing. The last thing he remembered was Aunty Máňa standing in the doorway, the shape of her there, saying goodnight – saying goodbye. After so long here, Aunty Máňa and Uncle Bill were gone.

  The flat felt too big. The flat felt empty.

  Babi was in the kitchen smoking. There was no radio, no music, and her face was a solid slab of concrete. Her eyes found his, but she was unreadable.

  She got up from the table and started to cut some bread. His breakfast – sliced bread, butter, a glass of water. Luděk sat down at the table and Babi put the food down in front of him. Still, she did not speak.

  He ate his breakfast. He drank down his water. He looked out of the window and the light was grey. It still felt warm but maybe it would rain today. It probably would rain. He got up and put his plate and glass in the sink, and he wished he could make time run backwards. He wished he could press rewind.

  Rewind. Stop. Play.

  Luděk ran out of the kitchen and into the hall. He skidded into his bedroom and pulled open his top drawer. He had not played it for ages – Mama’s cassette tape, the one she had made just for him.

  The old radio-cassette player sat on the kitchen windowsill. It was the spot with the best reception. Sometimes they even picked up radio programs from West Germany or from Poland. Not often. Not often enough. Mostly the radio was just endless talking, endless romantic duets, endless nothing.

  Luděk shoved the cassette into the slot and pushed it shut. He pressed the play button down hard, and the wheels began to run.

  A low hum.

  A pause.

  Luděk turned the volume up, and it began.

  The strange plucked melody, bending and curving and swirling out of the speakers. Then a drumbeat stomping down.

  Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang.

  The beat was hypnotic, it marched on, and when the song smashed open with cymbals, Luděk started to move. He kicked out his legs, each foot flying up with the beat.

  ‘Someone will hear!’ Babi said and she moved towards the cassette player, but Luděk blocked her – he kicked out harder. He kicked out higher.

  Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, crash!

  ‘Luděk, you will break something!’ she said.

  But Luděk didn’t care. He kept on dancing, the song more frantic, more driving, and he spun in circles now – around and around with the droning bass, his limbs flying free. One of his slippers flew off and hit the wall. The other skidded out on the wooden floorboards in the hall. Luděk spun again, barefoot now.

  It was Mama’s favourite song. ‘Paint it Black’.

  He did not understand the words, the singing. But he knew what the song felt like, how it was urgent and alive and crazy. It pulled you right up out of yourself. It shot you into the sky.

  Luděk grabbed Babi’s hands. He swung her big arms side to side with all of his force, and finally her feet started to step to the beat. Step, tap, step, tap. Bang, crash, bang, crash!

  He moved with her. His face was hot and there was sweat down his back, but he couldn’t stop now. Babi’s head was shaking, and her body was swaying, her arms rocking to the beat, and she was dancing. She was really dancing.

  The song went on and on in a loop of endless rhythm until it eventually faded out. Babi was panting and breathless. ‘Enough now,’ she said.

  Luděk pressed stop before the next song started up. Babi stood by the window and took some deep breaths, her hands on her hips.

  ‘Where did this music come from?’ she said, and she took another big gulp of air.

  ‘It’s Mama’s,’ Luděk said.

  Babi shook her head. Her daughter – always in trouble. Always the rebel.

  ‘Downstairs will complain,’ she said. But her face was alive and shiny, the corners of her mouth smiling. ‘You dance crazy, like your grandfather.’ And she let out a sharp laugh, some snap of memory.

  There was nothing better than when Babi laughed. Sometimes Luděk would hear her from his bedroom, laughing at one of the comedy shows she liked on TV. A sudden bolt of laughter she could no longer hold in. Uncontrolled. Uncensored. Real.

  She pulled out a chair and sat down at the kitchen table.

  ‘Go and wash up!’ she said. ‘Get dressed.’ She waved him off, picked up her cigarettes.

  She was back.

  Alena

  MARCH 1968

  Rock and roll flies out of his portable radio like an electrical storm.

  Signals from the other side – sounds that she has never heard.

  ‘I told you I could get reception,’ Tomáš says, and he is smiling at her. ‘I listen every night. It’s all I think about.’

  Now she will think about it, too. The feeling of the music – the beat – the drive. Freedom. And she wants to move, to dance. She drains her wine, takes Tomáš’s hand.

  They dance to the Beatles; they dance to Jimi Hendrix. They dance to the static that comes when they lose the signal.

  Tomáš. This tall man – a writer, so vibrant and alive.

  And maybe everything is going to be different now – this spring of hope, this wave of change.

  They dance to the Rolling Stones. And outside it rains.

  She can finally breathe.

  Melbourne

  1980

  My grandpa is fixing Uncle Joe’s car.

  It’s a bright purple Ford Falcon and it takes forever to warm up. The engine rumbles low and fat and rocks my whole frame when it starts. It is a beast. It is too big to fit in my grandpa’s small garage, so he has to work on it in the driveway.

  My grandpa can make any engine part he needs on his metal lathe. He was a toolmaker for over thirty years in London and I thought that meant he made tools like hammers and screwdrivers and wrenches, but he told me it meant that he made parts for things, like parts for clocks and speedometers. The insides of moving machines.

 
‘It is all maths,’ he told me, ‘angles, degrees, precision.’

  He could even make a cog in a watch, tiny and perfect. The part that kept time moving.

  ‘My son knows nothing about cars,’ my grandpa says, his white singlet already smeared with grease. It’s on his skin, too, on his arms – a small smudge of it on his forehead.

  ‘Plenty of work in Australia, he said. I don’t know why we listened.’

  My grandpa has taken his watch off, and I get to look after it. The band is too big for me. Even when I secure it on the last hole, the one closest to the face, it still slips right off my wrist. I just hold it carefully in my hand.

  Uncle Joe says my grandpa should get a new watch, a digital one like his that lights up green when you press a button. But my grandpa does not want a digital watch. He likes his watch.

  ‘You can take it inside,’ my grandpa says. But I shake my head. I like to hold it, to look at the face. It’s gold, real gold, and the band is soft and worn. The second hand speeds around so quickly, racing on and on.

  My grandpa opened it up to show me once. The insides. He took it apart piece by piece, cog by cog, tiny spring by tiny spring. Then, with his special glasses on, he put it all back together again. He set the spring and – like magic – the watch began to tick, to move – alive.

  What should the working day be made of? My grandpa asked.

  Eight hours for work.

  Eight hours for sleep.

  Eight hours for family, I answered.

  The eight-hour day.

  My grandpa loved the workers. He loved classical music and smoking his pipe. He loved my grandma’s cooking and playing cards, especially cribbage. Those are the things he loved.

  There were only a few things that my grandpa hated. He hated having his feet tickled when he was almost asleep. He hated it when anyone crunched their food loudly, especially things like potato chips or raw carrots. He hated swimming and he did not like to fly.