I laughed out loud. Really? Karel had just conned the Special Representative for the Prime Minister? And it was all because he knew how to work the system, where saving face was more important than rejecting a possible gatecrasher. My dream had come true. I was here—about to enter the ballroom, which looked exactly as I had imagined: gleaming wooden floors, beautiful decorations, glittering chandeliers, fresh flowers on white linen tablecloths, tables laid with heavy silver cutlery and crystal, waiters dispensing champagne, hundreds of people in their finery swarming around, and couples already waltzing to the strains of an orchestra.
‘Can we dance?’ I begged.
‘No, not yet.’ Karel was making the most of his success. ‘No, first we must visit some of the ministers here. This will be great example to you of how Švejk is still alive and well in our society.’ With the aplomb of a high official accompanying a famous dignitary, he led me up to several ministers and introduced me. As none of these men knew either of us, they behaved precisely as Karel had predicted, nodding graciously, shaking my hand and appearing charmed to meet an English expert from Australia who had come to see Minister Novák.
‘You see, they do not dare to reject our presence,’ Karel said with glee. ‘Every minister treats you most cordially so that they look as though they are on the same board as the other ministers.’ He hadn’t finished yet. ‘Tak! Here ahead is your Minister Novák. Do you want to say hello to him too?’
Panic struck. ‘But he knows me! He is the one person who will see through your scheme, Karel.’
‘It is no problem! I have another trick. We have exercised one half of my clever plan. Now it is time for the second half. Listen to me carefully.’
I listened, hardly daring to breathe.
Trembling, but armed with Karel’s advice, I tottered up to Minister Novák. Then I bowed slightly, as Karel had done earlier.
‘Good evening, Minister Novák.’ I gave him my most dazzling smile.
The Minister’s eyes narrowed. His evening plans clearly did not include being confronted by a foreigner he could not quite place. Particularly one who addressed him in English. The security guards moved closer.
‘Good evening,’ he said curtly in English. ‘Do I—’
‘I am an Australian lawyer and teach English at your Ministry of Justice.’ His group of onlookers moved closer, interested. ‘I am delighted to see you again this evening.’
Minister Novák inclined his head. ‘May I ask why you are here at this ball?’
‘I am here with one of Prague’s top engineers who is very involved with major reconstruction projects for the government,’ I responded blithely, and turned to introduce Karel who was standing politely behind me.
The Minister nodded, at a loss as to where or how to take this line of questioning any further, and led the group in shaking Karel’s hand. They all exchanged pleasantries.
‘Someday soon I hope to see you in my class, Minister,’ I added, with more cheek than was entirely necessary. ‘I know that you speak English well and I would be pleased to work with you more closely should you find the time and inclination.’
The Minister was again at a loss for words. ‘Well, thank you.’
As I knew perfectly well the Minister had no intention of studying English, and left all that to his deputy, Mr Svoboda, I retreated while I was ahead. Mission accomplished, I thanked him for his time, and he wished me a marvellous evening.
We took two more glasses from the nearest waiter and fell into chairs in the corner, laughing. Karel even kissed me. Adrenaline and bubbles fizzed through me from top to toe. The band leader interrupted with a tap on the microphone and Karel pointed to the stage.
‘Aha, Czech Republic’s most famous singer, Karel Gott. You are especially lucky to see him in the live.’
In the live? Well, Mr Gott certainly looked live alright: tall, dark and handsome, and attired in a dazzling white suit.
‘He is great heart-throb in this country and women love him. But’—Karel lowered his voice further—‘it is said he was on side of communists. He went against Mr Havel’s charter in 1977. But perhaps he was forced to do so by the government. That was normální if you wanted to keep your job, your safety.’
The legacy of communism affected and muddied everything in this country. But one thing was clear: Mr Gott could sing. He kicked off the ball with some serious groin-gyrating (rather Tom Jones-esque), and the crowd went wild. Having finished his rousing first number, he launched straight into a waltz. A dreamy, old-fashioned waltz.
Karel took my hand. ‘Tak! Would you care to dance with me, Táničko?’
I wished Mum and Dad could have been there. They were beautiful dancers. They’d taught me all the steps I was now putting into practice. They would have loved it. But Karel was a wonderful dancer too and now I was in his arms, waltzing through the Žofín.
‘Relax,’ he repeated, hand against my back, breath warm on my cheek.
I enfolded myself into him, wanting this night to go on forever, wanting never to leave his arms.
Yet even Cinderella had to leave her handsome prince before midnight. She could not risk exposure of her rags and pumpkin. Nor could Karel. At 11.45 p.m., he whispered, ‘To use your expression, Táničko, it is best to leave while you are ahead.’
Touché.
With a last ecstatic look around the ballroom, knowing I might never see something as beautiful again, I followed Karel outside to the darkened driveway and a waiting taxi hailed for us by one of the undoubtedly frozen bodyguards.
As we swept away, I gazed at the magnificent Prague Castle, set high on its hill on the opposite bank. If only Václav Havel had been at the ball! Now that would have been really something. He was my real hero—the poet who became a president.
‘Karel’ I snuggled into him. ‘Do you think there might be another ball where I could meet the President?’
His response was dry and to the point. ‘Vymalováno.’
It was painted. In other words, it was finished. Our ball season had ended as quickly as it had begun.
The sour smell of the driver’s cigarette slowly brought me back to reality as we headed towards Prosek’s paneláky. But it didn’t matter. Given our success tonight, Karel told me that we might as well be driving home accompanied by three black cars adorned with the national flag and the President’s personal emblem.
33
Alice Springs
March 1995
Central Australia greeted me with bright, bright light and endless sunshine.
I leapt back into life there with joy and relief; I was home at last, back in this strong, ancient landscape. I could hardly get enough of the light, the space, the clean air. Everything was hot and familiar, from the pungent smell of eucalyptus to the sound of cicadas at night, from the red dirt under my boots to the vivid blue of the sky reaching out beyond the hills. I walked for hours alone, soaking up the space and the solitude. I raised my face to the sun and started to thaw after the long winter I’d just left. My skin peeled after barely a day. Strands of light, fine hair crackled with electricity as I pulled my brush through them. I spent hours curled up with M’Lis and Mum, chatting endlessly to my brothers Brett and Benny, telling Dad all about the politics of the Czech Republic, and gabbling joyously in English.
Family and friends swept me back into a life that was much as I had left it twelve months before. I revelled in good wine and good food, caught up with all the latest legal gossip and reunited with colleagues from my old law firm as though I’d never been away. For the first few weeks I felt empowered, strong and happy, a far cry from the confused and anxious self I’d left behind in Prague. It was a strange scenario. I was like a bold and brave visitor and no one knew if I would stay or leave—including me.
But Prague was never far from my thoughts. The vast horizons of untouched bushland and rugged ranges rising out of the desert were stark reminders of how far I’d settled into my new Czech life. There I lived cheek by jowl with everyone
else in ancient, bustling, crowded Prague, soaking up historic cultural experiences unimaginable in the bush—even unimaginable in our big cities.
There were challenges in returning home too. The first day back M’Lis took me to the nearest supermarket, I felt nausea bubble up and had to rush outside for fresh air. The rows and rows upon rows upon more rows of brightly coloured, shiny packaged goods of every possible variety were sickening. The trolleys overflowing with groceries seemed decadent. Everyone had so much. The place smacked of greed. So much unnecessary consumerism. So much waste. It was unbearable.
By the end of the second week I was aching for the morning light on the Vltava that greeted me every day as I headed to work. The dark span of Charles Bridge at night. The jangling sound of trams along narrow cobbled streets. The sweeping lines of Renaissance buildings on the riverfront. Art Nouveau cafés overflowing with scholars debating culture, history and politics. They were all a world away from me. I even forgot about my dread of Czech paneláky—or at least pushed it out of my mind. Absence definitely made my heart grow fonder. I talked to friends and family constantly about Prague—its beauty, mystery, magic—and in some strange way felt more connected to Prague than I did to Alice.
And, of course, there was Karel.
I’d told myself I’d be strong and not contact him but by the third week I succumbed, longing to hear his voice and reinforce the reality of the life I had woven back there. I spent hours trying to get through the unpredictable Czech telephone system before he answered.
‘Ahoj, Táničko!’ His voice sounded happy. ‘How are you?’
But our conversation quickly became disjointed across the miles, punctuated with awkward pauses, my English now fast again, Karel unable to understand much of what I said. I realised how much I’d limited my vocabulary and slowed my conversation down to survive in Prague. For the first half of the call I wished I hadn’t rung.
However, when Karel finished our conversation with a halting, ‘Against my will, I must tell you something, Táničko’—pause—‘I miss you, very much.’ I shivered all over. ‘This is my truth. Nothing is the same since you’ve been gone. It is cold in my world.’ Another pause. ‘When are you coming back, Táničko?’
That was enough for me.
Karel had never said such things, or intimated that he ever would, and it was as close to ‘love’ as he’d ever come. I hung up, went to the bank, drew down on my already over-tight mortgage and booked a flight back to Prague for the following month.
I waited for the right moment to tell Mum and M’Lis about Karel and why I was going back. But they had already guessed. My constant references to him in letters home had been a giveaway.
‘The fact is . . .’ I hesitated, looking up into their earnest and worried eyes, struggling to find the right words. We were sitting out on the lawn in the sunny late afternoon with a glass of wine. Mitch crawled around our feet and gurgled happily. ‘I want to be with him more than anything else.’
There was a long silence. I could see something glistening in Mum’s eyes and she put a finger to her cheek as if rubbing something away. She didn’t speak. Neither of them did.
‘Look . . . I don’t know where it’s going between us . . . it’s very difficult in many ways . . . I just know . . . he is the most wonderful man and I—I love him.’
For better or worse, that was my truth. And after our call, I thought it might, just might, be his too.
It was also a really hard thing to say to my beloved Mum and M’Lis. They both started crying; soon we were all crying, and we embraced with the pain of what this news might mean for the future. But I was propelled by a force beyond me. While I loved my family and my home with all my heart, and I would be desperately sad to leave them again, there was no doubt in my mind about my returning to Prague, at least for the foreseeable future.
Prague and Karel were unfinished business.
And I didn’t want to prove Karel right by default.
34
Return to Prague
The Czech Republic did not disappoint. It greeted me with the fragrance of new spring, with wide, soft skies and green wooded hilltops. The fields shimmered with yellow flowers. The light and the air felt gentle and caressed my skin after the harshness of Central Australia.
Hurrying through Prague Ruzyně International Airport, I flashed my passport at the customs controller, feeling the confidence of returning to a place where I knew the system, where I was no longer a foreigner; indeed, I was almost a local. When the controller stared suspiciously at my permanent residence stamp, I responded in what sounded (to my ears) like flawless Czech. Retrieving my passport carelessly, I then bounced out into the waiting area and the pale light of the afternoon like an excitable puppy. I simply couldn’t wait to see Karel. I thought my heart might burst out of my chest.
‘Ahoj, Táničko.’ I heard the lazily spoken words that had been missing from my life for eight weeks and my body tingled all over. Karel strolled towards me, his face creased in that familiar smile, his blue eyes alight, the familiar sight of a wilting carnation squashed into his right hand. Did I detect something else? Relief?
Šárka, Princess and Radka were outside with the family’s little car and we headed for a traditional picnic in Horní Šárka, a gorgeous, sunlit valley bearing the same name as Karel’s irrepressible daughter. I was thrilled to be welcomed back by the whole family. We cooked sausages over a fire and Karel brought out his guitar and we lay in the sunshine. I soaked up the Czech language and knew I’d made the right decision.
By the time we made it back to the panelák, my sense of Australian space was definitely a world away. Despite my jetlag, all I now wanted was time alone with Karel. I was aching to reconnect with him and make up for lost time. But Radka needed help with her homework. Šárka and Princess were staying for dinner. There was preparation required for an urgent meeting with British clients tomorrow. Phone messages to return. Faxes to send. And to top it all off, Karel was tired after making music with his friends until late the night before. But still, Czech pivo was best in the world, and would I like one?
It was definitely business as usual, I thought, folding my weary limbs into bed, pushing down the ache in my heart, and trying through the fog of fatigue to come to terms with the life I had returned to. It was not everything I wanted, but then again, could anything be as good as my hopes and dreams? Karel rolled in beside me at 2 a.m., cuddled up, and left again before daylight.
I returned to the workplace fired with energy and enthusiasm. This year I would be successful, I decided. Last year had been my entrance to this country, a time of feeling my way through a new culture and language, but this year I had experience and energy on my side, and I intended to secure my thirty hours here and stay on. My students were all delighted I was back and I had lots of Australian stories to tell them.
However, at the end of the first week, Headmistress Anne invited me to English House and dropped a bombshell. Dickie of The Exploding Buddhas had won her hand and she was returning to England to be with him. They would marry next year. Richard and Anne’s partnership, and English House, would dissolve.
As Anne spoke I thought the floor would collapse beneath me. But I threw my arms around her and tried to be brave, tears blurring my eyes. ‘I really am so happy for you, my darling Aničko. I can’t believe I’m crying, I’m sorry, it’s the most wonderful news—I just don’t know what I’ll do without you.’
Anne was my best friend, my English-speaking companion, and the only one who knew about the ups and downs of life with Karel. Her departure would leave a huge hole in my life. What would Prague be without her humour, her Scottish common sense and the bond we shared with this country? We’d even taken to calling each other Aničko and Táničko as a joke. It made us feel almost Czech.
‘Táničko, I have a very important question to ask you,’ she said, gravely. ‘I would like you to be Best Woman at our wedding.’
I stared at her, laughing and crying proper
ly now, lost for words.
‘And guess what—we’re getting married in Prague! Richard is going to help us organise the Czech side and I’ll manage the English paperwork.’
She handed me her hanky.
‘Perhaps May or June next year. Will you still be here?’
‘I certainly hope so.’ I took a deep breath and wiped my eyes. ‘But if for any reason I am not, don’t worry, I’ll come back. Thank you so much for the honour of asking me to be part of something so . . . so . . . incredible, really.’
We headed arm in arm to the Obnoxious Pub to celebrate. From the Obnoxious waiters we then ordered little glasses of Cinzano (the best thing available there) and clinked glasses.
‘So when will you leave us?’ I finally asked the question that neither of us had yet broached.
‘End of the school year,’ said Anne. ‘Yes, I know—July, not far away. But Dickie and I are longing to be together. We can’t wait anymore. Besides, it makes sense to close everything down then. It will give Richard time to work out how he wants to proceed—whether to find another partner or shut up shop altogether.’
Heading home on the bus much later, I stared out at the long line of paneláky obliterating the horizon. The evening shadows had lengthened them into grotesque chunks, like abstract prison blocks, and I shivered. A dark sense of loss had lodged deep in my stomach. Anne’s departure would change everything for me, especially in the expat and teaching world. But there was something else. Her news had hit a raw nerve. Deep within I longed for a future like hers: a joint commitment between two people, a joint declaration of love, a joint future together on equal terms, a joint lifestyle, and the joint desire to declare all of that to the world.
I’d come back hoping for that outcome too but it now felt a long way away. Karel might have spoken the words I wanted to hear on the phone but now I’d returned to Prague it was back to situation normal. He was constantly busy, I shared him with family and friends, and we were almost never alone. We were never going to be ‘on the same board’ in the same way that Anne and Dickie were. But I’d come back to be with him because I wanted a life here with him more than I wanted to stay in Australia and I had to do my best to make it work.
Alice to Prague Page 27