Alice to Prague

by Tanya Heaslip

  Forcing the deep, dark block of misery down, I tried to focus on what I did have. A Czech home, a Czech family, and a Prague life. I was lucky. Most of the expat English teachers envied me. Not everyone had those things.

  On the work front things did start to improve. True to her word, the wonderful Mrs Wurstová found me additional teaching within the Ministry. During our lessons I also began to help her with her Top-Secret Documents and started to assist at Very Important Diplomatic Meetings. It was like acting in my very own spy movie, whizzing around behind my boss like a faithful henchwoman.

  I also met Mrs Wurstová’s latest ‘assistant’, a glamorous Marilyn Monroe look-alike named Romana.

  Rumours abounded. ‘She is a spy,’ Dana whispered.

  ‘Special intelligence’ was all Romana would concede, with a wink. We became friends immediately and she took me to numerous hidden Prague wine bars where we gossiped, giggled and spoke mainly about boys. She lived in an unidentified secret apartment and otherwise lived a mysterious life, all the while—as far as I could tell—avoiding real henchmen.

  Networking Irena invited me to Women in Business dinners and even though they were really beyond my budget I knew I had to go. One night I met a new friend, Alyson.

  A German IT specialist, Alyson was great company, charming and smart. Her clothes were beautifully tailored; she wore her straight light-blonde hair tucked behind her ears and topped off the professional look with serious round-shaped glasses. When she said, ‘You have been here much longer than me. I would be very happy if you would show me around Prague,’ I felt like an old hand. I was able to show her hidden galleries and Old World cafés and ancient theatres, and I realised with delight that I now knew a lot more about this beautiful city than I had ever thought I would.

  Within a few weeks of our meeting, my networking outlays had paid off. Alyson found me translating work through her contacts with a young and vibrant law firm called Váňa, Oršula & Partners.

  Actual translating work was still beyond my skill set, but I’d been madly studying Czech and Czech law at nights, and my working understanding of legal commercial Czech documents was now good enough to ‘wing it’ at this law firm; especially as I’d be working alongside a gorgeous young Czech guy, Milan, who’d studied law, spent time in America and was fluent in English. Milan and I proved to be a great team. Every day we pulled the firm’s English and Czech documents apart until we were satisfied the translations reflected the legal intent behind them, and every night I swotted over the documents to teach myself more. It was fascinating to be at the ‘coalface’ of the firm’s new dealings with the West.

  I adored Milan. I’d never used a computer before, and he said, ‘It is the luck that you could come here so we could teach you modern way of working, honey.’

  I also became great friends with two of the young lawyers, Petr and Radek, and over drinks after work we would debate for hours the differences between the legal jurisdictions of the East and West. They treated me as one of their own and I realised, with a pang, how much I missed collegial work.

  My advertisements paid off too. Soon I was teaching two glamorous Czech girls, Michaela and Eliška, at a Czech/French law firm called Gide.

  Both girls spoke French, Czech and English and were dressed like fashion models whenever I turned up for their lessons, which was always after 5 p.m. I was astounded by this. By 5 p.m. in my former life, my lipstick would have faded, my hair would be standing on end (because I’d run my hands through it so many times during the day) and my suit creased. A day in a law firm always left me wrung out and exhausted. And I’d be desperately looking for a drink.

  ‘How do you do it?’ I asked them, in awe.

  Michaela looked at me gravely. ‘It is important for us to look as the firm wants us to look, to present to our clients in smart way. No more old-style dressing. We represent the future, an international world.’

  Eliška smirked coquettishly. ‘I must always look this way because I am married to French man. And when I go to French office in Paris, always I go shopping. It is very enjoyable.’

  ‘Mais oui, most of our clothes are from Paris,’ Michaela nodded.

  They represented a new generation in every sense. I loved working with them and hoped their equally charming (and handsome) French boss Daniel would extend my hours and perhaps even tell other law firms about me.

  Even Networking Irena was impressed.

  Soon I was working incredibly long hours. I applied for a Czech Business Licence to give me greater rights and status. Váňa, Oršula & Partners generously supported the process. I visited Sedlčany often. My network continued to expand. Karel said, ‘You will become Czech girl yet’ and started speaking to me more often in Czech. He seemed amazed and impressed at how much I was achieving.

  But I had the bit between my teeth. If Anne was leaving, and my relationship with Karel was not exactly what I wanted, I was determined to make up for both with success at work. I couldn’t bear the idea of being a failure, especially as I’d returned here on such a high, reassuring my family that Prague was the place for me.

  But despite my best efforts, the mulga ache never went away. Each time my Australian home hurtled into my Czech home with a rattle and a whirl of the fax machine I found myself straddling two worlds. As I sat on the edge of my panelák bed in one, devouring the letters from another, I tried to visualise a third where I might live—whole, complete and happy.

  35

  Loss

  Headmistress Anne’s departure loomed.

  Vera, Anne and I spent a lot of time talking about her wedding. It kept us from falling into the doldrums. Every time I thought about Anne leaving, a lump formed in my throat and my heart felt heavy and hard.

  But the departure date did eventually arrive and Vera and I stood side by side, silent and morose, as we hugged her goodbye. As the large intercontinental bus, packed to the rafters with students and backpackers, lurched out of the bus stop—next stop London—it occurred to me that in less than one second a way of life can suddenly be over. While five minutes ago it might have been buzzing along, with a flash of a farewelling hand that life was gone, leaving behind nothing more than memories and a stab of loss.

  ‘You must live every moment as though it’s your last, because this time will never come again and we don’t know how long we have our life for.’ These were the wise words intoned by one of my Ministry students, Marek, who took me several days later to look through some of the magnificent headstones of Prague’s most famous cemetery.

  As I stumbled after him I wondered why I had agreed to this grim outing, but Marek was an enthusiastic historian and wanted to show me the beauty of Prague’s headstones of former times. A trip to a cemetery seemed fairly in keeping with the nature of that week so I trailed through the collection of remembrances, and gazed in despair at the headstones of people who had once made such a phenomenal contribution to their country but were now no more.

  ‘What is the point?’ I finally burst out to Marek. ‘These people gave their all and now they are barely remembered. They might as well have never existed.’ I glared at him as though it was his fault. ‘What on earth is the point of it all?’

  Marek gazed back morosely, with the hangdog expression of the Czech melancholic, and agreed. His response was not what I was hoping for, but then again, what should I expect from someone who frequented graveyards as a hobby?

  ‘You are right, Tanya. That is why all this stressing and striving of you people in the West is ultimately for nothing. You will all still end up here—or somewhere like it. That is why you must grasp every moment, enjoy it to the full, let it touch you . . .’

  I froze. Although the day was warm, a chill ran down the back of my neck. How many times had I heard this sentiment, in one guise or another? In how many different voices and different settings had it been said to me? And what was it that I was still not learning or hearing?

  I returned to Prosek confused and equally hangdog, real
ising with a greater profundity than ever before that the only certainty was death. My head ached. When Karel finally returned home that evening, I flew at him, buried myself in his shirt, hungry for reassurance, needing comfort.

  It didn’t come. What else had I expected?

  ‘Take it easy, Táničko,’ Karel drawled as he poured us both a pivo, the salve for any drama or untenable situation. ‘You think too much. Just live the life.’

  Two weeks later my maternal grandmother died. My beloved Nana Parnell was a woman who had struggled and suffered much in her life. However, she read me some of my first Enid Blyton books and introduced me to the joy of the written word, the thrill of the blank page and the use of imagination to create stories. She always allowed me to stay up late to finish reading as I begged, ‘Just one more chapter, Nana.’ I remembered drinking cocoa in bed whenever I stayed at her old blue house with its big windows and wide verandahs.

  With a shaking hand, I read Mum’s fax about the funeral plans and recalled the last piece of advice Nana had given me, set out in her spidery handwritten Christmas card just six months before.

  ‘Enjoy your experiences in Prague and write them all down, dearie,’ she’d advised. ‘One day you will need them all to put them in the book I know you are going to write.’

  I wept inconsolably for days. Never before had I felt so far away from my family nor needed them so much. I managed to telephone Mum, and for those few moments felt her pain and that of M’Lis, who loved Nana Parnell with all her heart.

  Karel watched me quietly. I tried to hide it from him, and it wasn’t difficult, as our lives were increasingly busy and separate, but he knew. I wanted to get on a plane and fly home, to be part of the ritual to bless Nana on her way from this world. But I couldn’t. The distance was like a raw wound. Instead, I climbed through Ďáblický les, a magnificent forest more than a half-hour bus trip away from Prosek, and spent a day there on my own. It was a place, a sanctuary, that I knew would give me space to grieve alone. A high wooded area, it had plenty of walkways for families, which was how I had first found it: Karel and Šárka had taken me there one afternoon. It was a place many Czechs went on the weekend to promenade and have picnics.

  The day was hot, very hot, and I could hear the sounds of Czech families above me, their voices filtering through the trees. But in here I was enclosed by the thick, glossy oak trees of my childhood books—the kinds of books Nana had read to me as she helped to develop my imagination. I smoothed the bark of an oak trunk and picked up a handful of dirt, letting it trickle through my fingers and fall back to the earth under my feet.

  Dust to dust.

  Goodbye Nana, from Prague and from me.

  36

  Late autumn

  End of October 1995

  ‘Ahoj, Táničko, I will be near your law office in half an hour. Would you care to join me for the lunch? I know some nice little pub nearby.’

  Karel’s mellifluous tones floated down the telephone line of Váňa, Oršula & Partners and my heart skipped. It was rare to see or speak to Karel during the working day. Phone communication across the city remained unreliable and our timetables rarely coincided.

  Running a brush through my hair, I excitedly escaped the office shortly after 1 p.m. Rain splashed down on the cobbled street and I hoped Karel wouldn’t notice my wet stockings.

  ‘Take it easy . . . you need not hurry. Would you like to share my umbrella?’ Karel’s lazy, lilting tones caressed my name and sent a rush of adrenaline through me.

  I gazed up at his blue eyes through the rain. A rush of happiness filled my heart as it did every time I looked at him. While I might not have exactly the life I wanted with Karel, it didn’t stop the love I felt for him.

  Taking my hand, he led me down a side street and in through a small unmarked door, beyond which was a cosy dining area filled with locals. Being with Karel was always a thrill. I’d never have known about this place much less have had the courage to go in on my own. He remained the source of my greatest adventures in this city.

  We sat down and he ordered a large beer for himself and a small one for me.

  ‘Tak! What is new, Táničko?’ Karel leant forward, using his favourite Czech expression in English while downing the first pivo.

  Buzzing from this unexpected lunchtime adventure, I dived right in. ‘Karel, I have been thinking for some time about my next step here and now I know what I want to do next!’

  ‘You do? That reminds me of our special joke about the Russian Minister of Defence who has some special plan for the people . . .’

  I interrupted him. This was no time for Karel’s humour. ‘No, I’m being serious. I’ve spent so much time around lawyers over the last five months, seen the really interesting work they do, and it makes me want to be part of it all again. Not just as a translator, but as a lawyer here.’

  Karel raised his eyebrows. ‘But I thought you liked being a translator.’

  ‘I do! It’s fantastic work and really interesting, but I feel like I’m ready to move to the next step of working properly in law here. I know it won’t be easy to do and I’m not sure how to do it but it feels like the next stage in my plan. Proč ne?’

  Karel sat back in his chair. ‘Táničko, can you not be satisfied with what you have achieved so far? In a few short months, you have managed to get a Business Licence. You have done more than most foreigners could have done in this time. You know more people in Prague than both my daughters! Can you not take it easy?’

  ‘But the fact is I am a lawyer. I want to be back using the skills I’ve been trained to use—where I can do my best work.’

  He sighed. ‘And what about the advice from your Ministry expert, Dr Holub? Has he not told you many times that unless you speak Czech and have a Czech law degree, it will not be possible?’

  I squirmed. Karel was possibly right. But I didn’t want to hear such pessimism. Or, as Karel and Dr Holub would call it, ‘Czech realism’. We’d had so many conversations of this nature and I was sick and tired of all the doomed predictions, the Czech passivity and negativity. Why wasn’t shooting for the stars possible?

  ‘Karel, if I accept your advice, I have no choice but to take second-best . . .’ I spread my hands, frustrated. ‘It’s so defeatist! Why can’t I live and work fully here?’

  ‘You have so much passion,’ Karel sighed, and touched my cheek. ‘This country cannot meet it. We are former communist world and we are bound by so many old rules that will take many years to change. And you know it too.’

  Silence fell. We both knew that if he was right, and if I was determined to practise law again, there was no other option but for me to return to Australia. Karel’s words—I always said this would happen—hung between us, unspoken. I wanted to scream at him and at Dr Holub, too.

  A waitress in a short skirt broke the silence by banging down two full plates of pork. Then the waiter arrived with the next round of beers. Karel drank his heavily and I stabbed the slice of pan-fried meat furiously.

  ‘Karel, okay, can we talk about something else for a moment? I would really like to go away together, somewhere, for a weekend or maybe even a holiday. Somewhere you could relax, and we could have time alone, without anybody else—just us.’

  Karel choked on his beer. ‘Just us? What would we do? We would have nothing to talk about!’ He gave a wan grin. ‘That is old Czech joke about men and women.’

  ‘This is not a joke.’

  Normal couples went away together. Without their children and grandchildren. Without their friends. Without their next-door neighbours. They went to places where they did not, as a rule, know the chalet owner, the local publican, the people in the cottage up the road, the people in the cottage down the mountain slope. I was longing for intimacy and space. In all the time we had been together, we had never gone away without other people.

  ‘That is insulting to me as a man.’ His face was flushed. ‘Any spare time I have is for my girls and my work and my friends. Also, I d
o not have that kind of money.’

  ‘I have money now.’

  ‘I will not take your money.’

  ‘Look, it doesn’t have to be expensive. Not a weekend, anyway. We can plan and save for it if necessary. But it’s not about the money: I want time alone with you. I want the chance to relax and hang out together and be together. It’s what normal people do in a relationship.’

  There was something deeper too. I was increasingly missing intimacy, that time spent with someone close, sharing my feelings, hanging out. I didn’t have my family here, nor the friendship of Anne, and the ache inside for a deeper connection was growing. Work and work colleagues couldn’t fill all the gaps.

  But there was a long silence. Karel stared fixedly at the busy tables around him. Finally, he drew in a long breath. ‘What I have here is what I can offer you, and you know it pretty well,’ he said.

  Yes, I did know. As Karel constantly reminded me, he came as a package. He came with his existing priorities: his two daughters and granddaughter, his friends, his work and his country. He’d had the chance, momentarily and briefly, to escape in 1968 with his friends, but he’d chosen not to leave. He was Prague and Prague was him.

  He finished his beer and said, ‘Please, Táničko, take it easy.’

  ‘I don’t want to take it easy,’ I shouted, and the waiter arriving with more beers scuttled away. ‘I want to make plans and create a future. Anne and Dickie are doing it,’ I finished angrily.

  ‘They are young, without children and a business here.’ Karel replied tersely. ‘Táničko, why do you make this so hard? For me and you?’

  Why was I wrong for having needs? Why was I wrong for expressing them?

  A scream rose inside my throat.