Alice to Prague

by Tanya Heaslip

  Resolution time: I would find work and my own place. I would move out as soon as possible, far away from the paneláky of Prosek, and I would create my own beautiful, bohemian life in Prague.

  18

  Velmi starý pes—Grumpy old dog!

  After a few days, however, all my good intentions were lost in the thrill and excitement of being with Karel in Prague. During those days he took me with him as he ‘crisscrossed the Prague’ and I carried with me my own fantasy of fairytales and fun.

  Wherever we walked (and there was a lot of walking), we talked. I lapped up his company, his intelligent mind and his easy outlook on life. I was hungry for real conversation and regular companionship, and everything about Karel offered me that. He was older, yes, which gave him an assuredness and self-confidence that were enormously attractive. He made me feel safe and relaxed. I also found the difference in our ages simply didn’t matter.

  He also had a childlike way of embracing life and living in the moment, a boyish energy that more than matched my girlish energy. Although, to be honest, my energy was wilting somewhat in the heat as he marched me here and there, exclaiming, ‘You must now see this baroque architecture, Tanya,’ or ‘This is famous and romantic nineteenth-century building; let us go in and I will show you its ballroom,’ or ‘Up ahead now you see our Gothic towers. Would you like to climb them and see over all of the Prague?’ His passion for and knowledge of the buildings and architecture of the city were born of a lifetime of loving every corner of it. I learned more in those first few days than I could ever have discovered in my faithful Let’s Go Europe.

  Quite simply, I’d never met anyone like Karel.

  As we walked his city end to end, he told me stories of life under communism, patiently answering all my questions and offering up thoughts on the new regime. He was less fearful than most other Czechs I’d met, perhaps because life in the city had given him more opportunities and a broader outlook. There was a sophistication in his lightness and absurd humour, and he included at least three long and complicated jokes about the regime per day—more if he found time for them in between visiting the worksites he was project managing as part of the reconstruction of historic Prague buildings.

  Perhaps best of all was how he treated me during our time together. He listened to what I had to say seriously. He commented thoughtfully. He respected the fact I had a law degree. He was interested in the law I’d practised. I knew I had the edge of being different and interesting because I was from elsewhere. And there was something else too: he’d picked up that I was a free spirit and that reflected his approach to life.

  The days of talking and walking restored my soul. But by each evening my legs ached and my brain hurt and I was ravenous. On the fourth night when I said I couldn’t walk another step he took me to a beer garden where we sat in dappled light and drank Pilsner Urquell. Basking in his attention, I forgot how tired and sore I was, and soon we were engaged in a passionate debate about world politics.

  At one point Karel raised his glass. ‘Here now is one of our favourite Czech toasts: to your youth and your beauty! And I should also say—your intelligence!’

  ‘Ha! Every Czech has a sermon,’ I responded, using one of his other favourite Czech quotes back at him.

  He touched his eyebrows with a grin. ‘Touché!’

  The waiter brought us more beers.

  ‘You’ve been so good to me, Karel.’ I spread out my arms in the glow of the sunset across the garden. ‘This is bliss. I know you’re so busy at work and still you’ve taken a lot of time out to introduce me to Prague.’

  Karel waved away my thanks. ‘It is no problem for Australian girl who is going to teach me English soooo well.’

  I couldn’t help but laugh. He was outrageously charming.

  He pointed to the Lesser Town slopes behind us. ‘One evening in summer—if you stay, Tanya—we can climb to the Prague Castle and see where your famous Mr Havel lives, and visit the palace gardens below.’

  ‘You are quite crazy, you know, Karel,’ I said, emboldened by the atmosphere of the evening. ‘You’ve got the passion for life of someone in their twenties, if not younger.’

  ‘We Czechs keep young through music, beer and making love. You should try it one day, Tanya.’

  I choked on my beer. I’d managed the first two and he knew it.

  ‘I used to be much more with energy,’ he continued guilelessly. ‘When I was young, I worked all day and played all night. I’d walk for hours under the moonlight to go to a party, play some guitar, sing some folk songs, meet some nice girl—but now I am velmi starý pes.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘It is name my girls give me from time to time.’ He grinned. ‘Grumpy old dog.’

  I laughed. He gazed at me across the wooden table, which was now draped in dusk’s colours of crimson and orange. I felt that I would remember this evening forever.

  As I sat there and we talked some more, the energy between us changed in some imperceptible way. It was as though Karel was making up his mind about something. And then, as the moon rose and the moths fluttered under the lamps on our table, casting crazy shadows along the wooden benches, he decided. He traced the shadows with his finger, put it to his lips and then, slowly, touched my lips.

  The shock was electric; my breath caught. It was as though the earth had thudded up through my body. His fingers were salty from the mandle we’d eaten and he let them linger on my parted lips. I couldn’t move. Paralysed by the audacity of what he’d done and the intensity of my involuntary response, I realised that everything had changed with that simple act.

  Then he took me to the metro and I leaned into him, drunk with beer and desire, rocked by the warm carriage, knowing that if there was any moment to turn back, it was now. But there was no turning back for me; I knew it.

  Inside the dark and narrow hall of his apartment, I fell against him, found the warmth of his chest, felt his fingers trailing along my neck. And then I was in his arms.

  His lips were in my hair, along my back, around my waist, and I stood on tiptoes and pushed myself into him, hungry for his touch, hungry for kisses after being alone for so long, every cell in my body reaching and expanding for a connection, no longer caring about anything, including the darkness. I knew he wanted my body; I was glad to give it to him, and I wanted his. His mouth was on my mouth, my clothes were on the floor, his body strong against me. Our whispers and cries rose and fell, snatches of laughter between kisses, a sense of profound release as we finally collapsed into twisted sheets.

  If the neighbours from the paneláky above, below and each side were home, I hoped they slept soundly.

  The next morning I woke to an apartment flooded with light. The pillow next to me was indented and still warm. I sat up dazedly and looked around. A bird sang outside my window. I got up and padded to the kitchen. On the table was a note on which was scribbled: ‘Táničko, I have gone to the work. Radka is with Šárka and Princess. I will see you tonight. Měj se hezky (have a nice day) Karel.’

  I looked at the note, felt a flutter of excitement, then folded it up and put it carefully in my purse. I also felt a twinge of guilt for sleeping in when everyone was up and working. But there was nothing to be done except follow instructions so I headed out quickly into the big world of Prague, smiling all over, humming to myself. I wanted to dance and swirl around this beautiful city and make every moment of my intense happiness last. It was as though I was the first girl who’d ever been loved.

  In celebration I headed to my favourite place, the Old Town Square.

  Feeling bold, I took a table at an open-air café where red- and-white striped umbrellas shaded tourists from the morning sun. There I ordered espresso in my best Czech—‘Jeden kávu, prosím’—and pulled out my diary, scribbling down my thoughts. I filled several pages with what I’d learnt from Karel over the previous few days and more than a few pages about how I was feeling this morning. The coffee was bitter and the sun warm on my ba
ck. I luxuriated in the pleasure of having connected to another person who had so obviously wanted to connect with me.

  Once I’d finished writing, I pulled out my tattered but faithful travel guide, Let’s Go Europe. I was fascinated with the martyr Jan Hus, whose enormous statue towered over the southern end of the Old Town Square. Karel had told me about him and I wanted to learn more. This was the perfect opportunity.

  Jan Hus was the great church reformer of the fourteenth century, burnt to death for the crime—a depressingly common one—of defending his principles of religious and political freedom, for highlighting corruption in the Catholic Church, and for trying to bring truth to the people. Karel had told me Hus’s statue was now a symbol of opposition against foreign rule and represented the Czech’s cry for independence.

  ‘Look at the foot of the statue,’ Karel had said. ‘There is famous quote from Hus: Pravda Vitězí. It means “Truth Prevails”.’

  One of the most tragic things about the numerous despots who had occupied Karel’s country over the centuries was their fear of individual thought, and in particular, truth—in any form. Brilliant minds and ideas had been regularly crushed, destroyed and lost because political and religious powers feared them. Truth was stamped underfoot as corruption gathered pace and power. The only person whom the Czechs collectively really considered truthful was The Good Soldier Švejk, which was ironic in itself.

  And, I thought (and hoped), Václav Havel.

  My eyes went to Havel’s castle on the hill. Thank God he’d survived; he was now advocating compassion and acceptance for all, and was finally free from personal risk. I envisaged myself, notebook on knee, pen at the ready, poised to take down his words of wisdom. I’d decided to ask Karel if he thought there was any chance of a meeting.

  The air on my skin was soft, the light translucent, and I realised I was looking out at where Beethoven had once walked, and Mozart before him. Each had once trod the cobbled stones of this great square.

  I saw them in my mind’s eye, in wigs and gowns flowing, proclaiming the beauty of Prague, the city in which, it was asserted by the Czechs, that each felt most at home (even though neither was born here), musing upon their latest compositions and creative endeavours. Here each composed some of their greatest magic and grand theatres were built in their honour. Amadeus, the movie about Mozart’s life, was filmed right here, among the pastel hues and silver spires and golden palaces. That was the incredible thing about Prague. Despite the brutality over the centuries, creativity still flourished, and the Czechs were now reclaiming it for themselves. They were a resourceful people, despite the abuses that had been heaped upon them during those centuries, and Karel was one of those working day and night to rebuild and re-beautify the ancient structures of the city. I felt a thrill, a sense of pride, that I was here and a part of this.

  Offering Hus one last respectful look, I paid for my espresso (including thanking the waiter in Czech, which made me feel like a real local) and headed happily off to explore the other side of the river and Havel’s castle.

  Before long I was in my own fantasy world. There were little back lanes and alleyways and old shops to discover, achingly beautiful architecture to muse over, bridges, spires, intricate patterns in the stonework, and hidden gardens. Down Golden Lane under the Castle, for example, there were ancient men in little shops that could have been straight out of Grimms’ fairytales. If I closed my eyes, they danced before me, fashioning horseshoes over hot forges, hammering metal, spinning gold, stirring pots, making spells. Alchemists and magicians once lived in this street; it was a place known for magic and fables and seemed the perfect setting for Grimms’ stories and characters.

  As did any narrow laneway or crooked street or hidden pathway where, just around the corner, the lands at the top of the Magic Faraway Tree came and went, enticing me to enter for a glimpse but hinting also at the risks if I stayed too long. Magic had its dark side. Prague’s history offered a stark reminder of that.

  Life back in Australia faded, slipping into the recesses of my mind. Prague was where I wanted to be: learning and absorbing a new life; jumping excitedly from the top of the tree into another land; taking on a new language, love and culture. Right now I didn’t want to be anywhere else.

  But by the time I arrived back at the apartment that evening, footsore again and very tired, I was harbouring my first twinge of concern. Perhaps it would have been useful to have a discussion with Karel about our ‘frisson’ before we’d thrown caution—and day-to-day living arrangements—to the wind the night before?

  Had we just indulged in a one-night stand (hopefully not, but always best to be prepared for the worst) or something that would repeat itself? (Hopefully, it would.) What did it mean for us and the household and the girls? What did it mean for me and my new life in Prague? What if everything was suddenly, terribly awkward?

  I opened the door cautiously, heard Karel whistling in the kitchen and saw Radka watching television. Karel turned towards me and grinned, and in that moment any concerns vanished. His charisma filled the entire apartment, as usual, sweeping me into its wide embrace, reminding me that last night had occurred because every part of my being had wanted it to, and that things tonight looked equally promising.

  ‘How was your day, Tanya?’ he inquired as Radka looked up and smiled absently before returning to her program.

  ‘Good, thanks.’ I was a little breathless. What now?

  Nothing, as it turned out. Should I be worried?

  No. I need not have been concerned about the effect on our home life. The evening passed as normal—I prepared more job applications, Karel and Radka talked at length in Czech about the program she was watching—and then, when it came time for Radka to go to bed, Karel kissed her cheek tenderly and she disappeared.

  I stood up. ‘Does Radka—know?’ I asked awkwardly.

  ‘She was not here last night, so no.’

  There was silence. I suspected that meant he wasn’t going to tell her either. I didn’t know what to say. But Karel didn’t appear awkward—on the contrary. He whistled some more while turning down the lamps in the living room and put on some soft Czech music. Then he invited me to join him on the couch, his current bed. He draped his fingers along the back of my neck and found my mouth. Pulling me down on the couch, he whispered Czech words I couldn’t understand but I went with him, no longer interested in talking either. He tasted so good and I was hungry for him. If he wasn’t worried, why should I be?

  Later, much later, I found myself wrapped up in his bed/my bed. He lay looking at me, touching my cheek tenderly, tracing his fingers along my breastbone.

  ‘Are you sleeping here tonight?’ I whispered.

  ‘Yes, Táničko.’

  I trembled. He’d spoken my diminutive Czech name for the first time.

  Karel slept soundly, peacefully. My eyes, however, stayed wide and glued to the ceiling. Despite Karel’s reassurances, I couldn’t help worrying about what Radka would say when she woke up. I’d come here as a visitor for a short stay and ended up in her father’s bed. Was that normální? Would she disapprove? Would she tell me to pack my bags and leave?

  I remembered Pavel telling me that it was normální for hormonal teenagers to stay at each other’s homes. He’d looked at my surprised face and shrugged. ‘Where else would we go, if not our own bed?’

  Perhaps this was the bohemian way of relationships all over this country. We were in Bohemia, after all.

  Finally I slept too, hoping the rule applied to this household as well.

  19

  Looking for work

  My life over the next few weeks became a blur. I wasn’t sure whether Karel ever spoke to Radka and Šárka about my sleeping arrangements but they appeared relaxed about my presence in their home. It quickly became fun living in a ready-made family (something Peter Barr, no doubt, would attest to), and Karel was the most exciting and alluring man I’d ever met. I couldn’t get enough of his energy and his time. Kisses at
night, conversations that stimulated my mind, the chance to learn about a whole new city, history and way of life—it was my idea of the perfect holiday romance.

  My time with the family was made easy because the girls were lovely. Radka was generous with her space. She and I spoke almost nothing of each other’s languages but we shared smiles whenever we passed in the hallway and used finger language when we needed to converse about something. She was also very shy and as a result we led quite parallel lives, with little in common other than Karel. He acted as our go-between. He also (I think deliberately) made no overt displays of affection towards me in front of Radka, or in front of anyone for that matter; he was the same courteous and charming man wherever he was, and he never played favourites.

  Šárka visited often with Princess and brought great energy with her. She actually came out and said, ‘We are glad you are here! Táta is happy too! He was becoming too much grumpy old dog!’ And she and I giggled, opened a bottle of wine and toasted the moment. It was the closest thing to an acknowledgement of my current liaison with her táta that I’d had. How long it would last, none of us knew, but I realised Šárka had long ago learnt to simply ‘go with the Karel flow’.

  As I’d surmised in Šumava, Karel was a Pied Piper—in a good sense. Friends, family and even strangers queued up to see him. There was always much backslapping and many jokes to be shared (mostly told by Karel), cold refreshing pivo to drink at any time of the day or night, sloping palace gardens dappled by summer sunlight to visit, old parts of Prague to explore, guitar nights in old pubs—and people wanting his attention, everywhere. I even met a few of his foreign clients who spoke reverently of Karel’s ‘very impressive project management’ of the ‘exceptionally difficult bureaucrats’. People really liked him. He was kind and funny and generous, and in turn they sought out his time and company. I realised quickly I was on the end of a very long list.