Alice to Prague

by Tanya Heaslip

  ‘Seven-thirty a.m. Can you believe the bus driver got out to have a beer at 7.30 a.m.? Is that normal? Is it?’

  Míša was still chortling when I was interrupted by someone speaking in Czech. But this Czech sounded different to my ear, different to that spoken by the Sedlčany people. It was lilting, with a singsong quality. I turned around, mid-sentence, then stopped completely.

  A tall, well-built man was greeting everyone enthusiastically. Wearing faded jeans and a blue denim shirt with sleeves rolled up to three-quarter length, he looked like the main act who had just taken centre stage. On his own terms. For several minutes there was a hearty round of back slaps, handshakes, kisses and conversation—and much laughing. Finally, he turned to me and bent down to take my hand. I stared up into eyes that were blue like the sky, like the sea. Eyes that owned the moment.

  ‘Good morning,’ the voice said in heavily accented and quaintly formal English. ‘You must be our Australian teacher who has come to our beautiful Prague to visit us today. I am Karel Kolář. Very pleased to make your acquaintance.’

  ‘Er, yes, thank you . . .’

  ‘Tak!’ he went on breezily, with the relaxed air of an old friend resuming a half-completed conversation, oblivious to my glazed expression. ‘I heard you asking for some explanations from Míša about our special culture? I can help. You must know there are two things Czech men cannot refuse: beautiful women and our most excellent beer.’

  Pardon?

  ‘It is normal for some driver to want beer when on long drive,’ he continued, nodding confidentially. ‘Ah yes—that should not be surprise. What was surprise to me’—he let the emphasis linger—‘was the bus driver did not ask you to join him at his side.’

  I stared back at him in disbelief.

  ‘Tak! We are verrrry happy the bus driver did not keep you,’ he went on, as though this was the most normal conversation in the world to be having with someone he’d just met. ‘It is much better you are by our side.’ He finished with a flourish. ‘Welcome to beautiful Prague and I hope you have happy day with us.’

  Jarda rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, Karel has special sense of humour. I hope his stories and advice improve as the day goes on.’

  Undeterred, Karel said, ‘Tak—jdeme na pivo!’

  So, let’s go for beer.

  I wanted to laugh, to stand a while and let the strangeness of everything sink in. I had two new friends who saw me as a real person because we shared a country—two countries, in fact. Now a third person had suggested he had not just seen me but considered me beautiful. Admittedly, I had worn my best jeans, a blue silk shirt and a little scarf knotted around my neck, and I’d lost several kilos over the previous two months. But I was still squashed inside my pink parka and wearing my sandshoes. Perhaps it was my new haircut. Nad’a had taken me to her local hairdresser and for the princely sum of A$3 I’d had a trim. Whatever the reason was, it didn’t matter. Karel had said I was beautiful and my morning was shining all over.

  Perhaps Karel was the Mad Hatter in this Wonderland maze.

  Jarda led us down a labyrinth of crooked streets, which he explained was called the Royal Way. It was once a processional route trod by newly crowned kings, and it led to the high black towers that bookended the River Vltava.

  ‘And here over the river is our Charles Bridge—in Czech it is called Karlův most. It is for people only, no cars. Built in fourteenth century by our king, Charles IV.’

  On my first day in the Czech Republic I’d looked down at the much-lauded River Vltava from Zdeněk’s car and that beautiful bridge. Today I walked towards it. It was straddled by the wide and grand bridge of ancient stone, lined with statues and crisscrossed with people. Painters and musicians busily plied their trade on top as ferries cruised underneath. On the other side a spread of palaces and churches and gardens climbed several high hills. Above them sat the jewel in the crown that I’d seen from the Old Town Square—Prague Castle—with more Gothic towers and silver spires piercing the blue. A battlement wall ran under the grand castle, and Míša confirmed that yes, that was Havel’s home.

  ‘Can we go there?’ I felt like a desperate kid.

  ‘No, unfortunately not just now.’ Jarda instead directed us along a path that followed the Old Town side of the river. ‘You will remember, we will have beers on a small island up here a little way. It is called Slovanský ostrov. My friend has bar on a pontoon there.’

  No matter. I’d already decided I was coming back to Prague, now I knew how to do it. I’d broken through my own fear barrier and a world of possibilities awaited. Even if it took my entire salary, I’d find a way back every weekend. Peter Barr’s legacy would live on. Just thinking about that made me feel strong and independent again. I wasn’t stuck, I wasn’t trapped. I could make my time in this country anything I wanted.

  We wandered through the sweetness of the morning. Blossom hung from trees lining the bank. New green leaves sprouted and fragrance filled the crisp freshness of the air.

  ‘They are chestnut trees,’ Míša explained. ‘Very famous for Prague.’

  Jarda turned to me and pointed ahead. ‘Here, now, Táničko, is the island, and in the middle, you will see the Žofín ball house!’

  Just when I thought it would be impossible to see anything more beautiful than what I’d already seen that morning, an imposing yellow, white and gold mansion rose up before us, complete with gilded balconies, etched pillars, sweeping driveway and manicured gardens.

  ‘Ahhh . . .’ I breathed out in equal amounts of awe and delight.

  ‘You know about Žofín?’ Karel raised his eyebrows. ‘And are you okay?’

  But I couldn’t answer. I was lost inside memories: of a record of Strauss waltzes called The Blue Danube that Mum used to play when I was a little girl. She used to pop it on our little record player and dance with me in her kitchen. It was always hot, with several stoves going; Mum was invariably cooking mountains of beef. But, absorbed in the grandeur and joy of the music, we might as well have been two of the princesses depicted on the cover of the record. They wore long blue ball gowns and waltzed proudly, in the arms of men in black tie, around a magnificent ballroom with high sash-windows and glittering chandeliers.

  Now I’d arrived at that ball house! I was sure of it!

  When I was able to get my voice back, I burst out, ‘This is—this is—perfect! Could a—a foreigner like me dance here?’

  I gazed around at my new friends, begging them to say ‘Yes!’ and not laugh. I caught Karel’s eye. He held my gaze, as though he understood my question, as though I was not crazy. He nodded casually. ‘It is Czech tradition to dance. All Czech people dance—waltz, polka, gypsy and folk dances, and even the American foxtrot and jive. We must see what we can arrange for you while you are still here.’

  Then he looked at me slowly, sideways.

  My brain synapses fired wildly.

  Jarda interrupted by pointing to a little pontoon rocking gently on the water. I followed them down and sat between Jarda and Míša at a long wooden table next to a bar. It was like having two older brothers—just wonderful. The owner came. More back slaps ensued, foaming beers were served, and Jarda raised his glass.

  ‘Here, we all celebrate being back together again after so long. We celebrate because for the last twenty-five years we never thought we could come home.’

  Home.

  ‘It is the word that means the most to a refugee,’ Jarda said simply.

  I knew he was speaking of the depth of anguish felt by people who’d lost their country, who couldn’t go back. He’d been one of them once. They all had.

  The poignancy of it bit the air, bruised and bitter.

  I wanted to say that I was reminded of the Australian Aboriginal concept of connection to country, the basis for the Aboriginal way of life. I now knew, to my core, that connection to country was a primal human need the world over. It gave you a link and a relationship to what came before; it offered nourishment and purpose for the p
resent; it held out hope for the future. Without it you were lost, a speck, a nobody. I’d had a taste of life without it, a stranger in a strange land. But then it didn’t feel right to speak. My experience was so limited and they knew there was an endpoint to my time away from home.

  Fortunately, Míša broke the melancholy atmosphere by turning to me and raising his glass. ‘And we also celebrate the arrival of our little kangaroo into our home. And for her, Czech pizza—no pork řízek!’

  ‘Hurrah!’ I shouted, cheered and hungry.

  Jarda’s friend brought out plates of Czech-style pizza and we tucked in. They were adorned with tomato paste and herbs, burnt crisp at the edges, and they tasted fantastic—I’d forgotten how good a pizza could taste. We ate and laughed and watched white swans gather along the tree-lined water’s edge. More boats and ferries cruised past. Jarda and Míša did their best to translate the free-flowing Czech conversation and numerous jokes. It didn’t even matter that I couldn’t understand most of the conversation. The fact that I could talk in English if I wanted to—not to mention that I was surrounded by people who knew both this place and my own—was sheer bliss.

  At some point Karel moved down the table to sit opposite me. ‘I am most curious to know why you are here with us, Tanya.’

  I tucked my hair behind my ear, girlishly glad he wanted to know my story, and I told him.

  ‘You are unusual, Tanya, to come here alone. It is courageous thing to do. Especially to go out to somewhere like Sedlčany where they would have almost no experience with the West.’

  ‘But that is the reason,’ I said breathlessly, remembering why I’d come in the first place. ‘To learn about places that no one else in Australia knows about. To have those experiences. And—’ I paused, took a chance, ‘I’ve also dreamt of finding somewhere like your Prague since I was a little girl, since I saw pictures in fairytale books.’

  Karel leant back, put his arms behind his head. ‘Ah, so you are a romantic too. Perhaps you are Czech girl at heart—one of us.’ He held me in his gaze, his eyes as blue as a Central Australian sky.

  I blushed, rushing on. ‘Your part of Europe represents one of the last great areas to explore. Not just for romance, but for history, for politics—everything.’

  ‘Tak! You could be a spy too, like your James Bond.’ His eyes twinkled as he refilled my glass. ‘It is big pity you did not come when communism was here. You could have tricked our special Chief Comrades. They would have had no chance against your charm and cleverness.’

  I giggled.

  ‘But you are lawyer, yes? In our country, our Dear Comrade Leaders would not let us to try something for the fun. We are given some special role and we stay working there until we are allowed to retire or die—whatever our Leaders let us do first. We must live our lives’—he spread out his hands as though preaching from the pulpit—‘for the glorious benefit of the glorious Motherland.’

  I couldn’t tell if this was another joke or not, but Jarda came to my rescue. ‘Karel, it is not unusual for Australian people to leave jobs, to visit Europe. They have not had special experience of life under communism where our Comrades dictated how we live.’

  Then it was on: everyone joining in, shouting out stories about the risible requirements of the former regime. It seemed Karel’s joke had more than a grain of truth in it (and he assured me that if the Comrades decided it was time for someone to die, they made it happen).

  ‘You should read Kafka,’ he said, ‘if you want to understand what it was like to live under totalitarian regime. Kafka was ahead of his time.’

  There was Kafka again. My eyes locked with his. It was both terrifying and intoxicating to be part of this strange discussion, or at least the cause of it.

  ‘But if you want to really understand the Czech psyche, Tanya, and how we survived under occupation, you must read The Good Soldier Švejk.’

  I was about to ask him what he meant when the strangest thing happened. The group started wheezing and snickering, shoulders shaking, guffawing and howling, banging the table, roaring, ‘Švejk, Švejk, Švejk’, as though he was a favourite son or famous football player.

  ‘Ah, Švejk!’ repeated Karel, when he managed to recover from his own chortling fit. ‘Let me explain. It is our famous novel about how most stupid drunkard soldier could outwit his occupiers by being both stupid and drunk.’

  I stared at him. This was the cultured country Peter Barr had talked about? Stupidity meant survival?

  Jarda stepped in to assist. ‘It is a book from Austro-Hungarian occupation time but is famous as a symbol of our resistance. For we Czechs to endure our many occupiers, we have played a game against them. We pretend they are very brave and important and that we are the fools and buffoons, but really it is the other way round.’

  I tried to understand. It appeared the greater the power and cruelty wielded by the authorities, the greater the satire heaped upon them by their subjects. The authorities—of which there was no shortage—would always lose out to the cleverness and wit of their subjects, to the glee and mirth of the subjects.

  ‘The Good Soldier Švejk helped us not to go mad, lose our minds,’ Karel said. ‘We have very good jokes too,’ he added, immodestly. ‘Tak, Tanya, still there are these problems. Many of the occupier buffoons remained after Velvet Revolution because they were one of us. They still run our country. And so our jokes must continue!’

  My thoughts jumbled about as I tried to make sense of the contradictions before me. We were sitting in a fairytale setting created during the eleventh century, infused with centuries of (mostly) brutal occupation. In this most recent century (at least) the Czechs had learnt to live double lives, pretending and saying one thing while thinking another. No wonder Eastern Europe produced such good spies.

  Karel looked at me with his blue eyes. ‘Tak! Tanya, do you have enough stories of the people here for one day?’

  I smiled faintly, noting the irony of his comment. There had been more stories today than I could have hoped for.

  ‘And so, it is time for the famous Bohemian Sekt, yes?’ He clicked his fingers. ‘We need the šampaňské to revive after all this difficult talk of our special former regime.’

  The owner materialised from the back of the pontoon and popped a bottle. He poured bubbles into tiny breast-shaped glasses. The glasses were ‘famous Bohemian crystal’, according to Karel, who then gave me a slight bow as he handed me mine. Not only was Karel incredibly interesting, he was ridiculously charming. We might have been at Rick’s in Casablanca.

  Then somebody called out from the back of the pontoon, ‘And now we dance!’

  Before I knew it, a tape recorder was produced, Czech folk music rang out, and Karel held out his hand.

  I was in Karel’s arms. He held me in the commanding way of an accomplished dancer and led me in a waltz across the slightly unstable decking. The others joined us, laughing and singing. I was conscious of my stumbling feet and jeans and sandshoes. I was also aware that Karel had realised I really did want to dance—and that he’d made it happen. My life seemed to be spinning out of control.

  ‘Just relax,’ he murmured.

  It was not easy to relax. I was also intensely aware of being held so close against his body. He was very tall while I barely reached his shoulder. I breathed in the crispness of his denim shirt and the musky, sweet scent under his collar. Then I tried not to. To do so would be dangerous. I knew the signs; I knew the slippery slope. Yet I couldn’t stop myself. I breathed in, shakily, hungrily, like a prisoner starving for air. His hands were strong, with long, graceful fingers like those of a pianist. They curled easily around mine.

  It had been so long since I’d been in someone’s arms, feeling safe, special, feminine. Dear God, I didn’t want the moment to end.

  ‘You know how to dance too,’ said Karel, as we ended. He looked down at me. ‘Yes, perhaps you are Czech girl at heart.’

  My cheeks were hot. I didn’t want to let go of his hand.

&n
bsp; As if he had guessed it, Karel added, ‘May I show you something, Tanya?’ He led me to the edge of the pontoon, only casually releasing my hand as he pointed up to a line of high dark hills above Prague Castle.

  ‘If you come back to Prague, here is beautiful Petřín Hill to climb. At top is special Eiffel Tower imitation from Paris and most beautiful view of the Prague. Halfway down is monument to our most famous romantic poet, Karel Mácha.’ He paused. ‘And from there, you will see why they call Prague the “City of a Hundred Spires”. In the night-time, they are stars on velvet.’

  Stars on velvet?

  I thought of the Australian men I knew. Their poetry was football and cricket, the corporate world, the stock exchange, Carlton beer. They shunned emotions and displays of weakness; their pride lay in results, outcomes, legal wins, sporting scores, power.

  Yet this Czech man talked about the beauty of ‘the nature’, the seasons and his city. He talked about bubbles named after Bohemia and could waltz beautifully. He took pride in his country’s medieval architecture and nineteenth-century poets.

  His blue eyes met mine.

  Dangerous sparks flashed deep within. Karel had unlocked something, infiltrated my months of emptiness and starvation for connection. But this wasn’t just any kind of connection. It was something different—something I’d hungered for but not been able to find at home, something I couldn’t even articulate but had longed for, instinctively, for many years. A man who knew that words of beauty and history and poetry would enchant me.

  There and then I wanted Karel to take me back into his arms, to dance with me once more. Perhaps this might be a dance that worked. Could it? I felt like a bird released from captivity: bewildered, vulnerable, open, stretching for the sky.

  Warning bells were clanging but I didn’t want to hear them.

  The day drew to its inevitable close. As I prepared to leave my new friends, my heart hung heavily. Already Míša and Jarda felt like safe, kind older brothers, and it was a wrench to leave them. As if they were mind-readers, they drew me to one side: there was a plan. In several weeks’ time they would all visit another friend, Ludva, at his cottage in the Šumava mountains. Would I care to join them? If so, they said, they could draw me a map and write some instructions on beer coasters, and I would meet them at a town about an hour by train from Sedlčany.