“In the Slovak language…” I interrupt her.
“Thank you. In the Slovak language, we do not have these little words. They do not exist in Slovak language.”
“The Slovak language.”
“What about Slovak language?”
“You missed out the word again. You said, ‘they do not exist in Slovak language,’ but you should have said, ‘they do not exist in THE Slovak language.’ ”
“Oh dear. Sorry.”
“No problem…I was always rubbish at English, but I think that those little words are called prepositions.”
“Yes, I think you right.”
“No, ‘I think you are right.”
“No. I not right. I think you right.”
I laugh. This is going to be hard.
“I didn’t mean that. I meant, you said ‘I think you right’ but you should have put the word ‘are’ in the sentence before the word ‘right’. So the whole sentence you should then have said is ‘I think you are right.’
“Yes, I think you are right! I wrong before.”
“You were wrong before. But now you are right?”
“Good. Now we both very correct.”
We both laugh.
“Seriously, though Mr Teacher Andrew. Please correct me now whenever I miss out little words I should say in English. So that I are right.”
“So that I am right.”
“No, so that I am right. I know that you are right. You are English and can speak the language very excellent.”
“Actually, you are wrong. I am not English. I am Scottish. But is true that I can speak English excellently.” I say, emphasising the ‘y’ on the end of word “excellent”.
“Actually,” she replies, mimicking my pronunciation of the word. “Actually you are wrong. You should say, ‘And but IT is true…” .You forgot to say little word ‘it’ in the sentence. I think it is better, if I learn to speak like you, but you do not learn to speak like me.” She says the sentence slowly, thinking hard about what she is saying.
“Excellent. Well done,” I say.
“Thank you. I learn ….sorry, I am learning fast. I want to impress my handsome teacher.”
And later on that evening, in the quiet and intimacy of our little Slovakian hotel room, once again she impresses me very much.
.
By Wednesday morning, the day I was due to catch my SkyEurope flight back to London, I had completely forgotten about Sal, the bombings and everything about London life. I was so relaxed, amazed by how beautiful Slovakia was, and completely shocked that somewhere as pretty as this is so unheard of in the UK. Everyone has heard of the Swiss Alps, Bavaria, the French Alps, the Dolomites in Italy, but who has heard of the Tatras? How can a place like this have been kept such a secret for so long?
The answer, as Slávka patiently explained to me one night over dinner, is simple.
Until sixteen years ago, Czechoslovakia was a communist country, swallowed up by the Russian sphere of influence and hidden behind the iron curtain. When it broke free in 1989 during their ‘velvet revolution’, it was a poor country. In 1991, Czechoslovakia split itself apart and the Czech Republic and the Slovak Republics were born, as both countries decided to separate off and go their own ways. And now, according to Slávka, amongst all of the Eastern European countries, Slovakia is probably the one with the greatest potential to grow wealthy and fully Westernise.
Until last year hardly anyone from Slovakia travelled abroad, and when they did they dreamed of going to work in America to earn and save in dollars before then returning home to build a family house for their future. In 2004, however, Slovakia joined the European Union, and the moment that happened the flood gates were opened and everyone who had two legs, who was young and fit and able to travel, started planning to move to England or Scotland in search of jobs and the Pound Sterling.
At the same time, now part of Europe, the economy started to improve and foreign investment began to pour into Slovakia in order to take advantage of a poorly paid workforce who were in plentiful supply and keen to work.
Also around this time, cheap entrepreneurial airlines and bus companies, hoping to exploit the large demand from people wanting to fly or travel one-way to England, all started establishing routes to and from any airport that had a runway big enough on which to land a plane.
Only with the sudden influx of hundreds of thousands of Eastern Europeans did people in England and Wales and Scotland suddenly start wondering where all these people were coming from. And only then did people slowly start to become aware of a country called Slovakia.
Aware of the name, perhaps, but like myself still clueless as to where it was on the map.
.
.
--------------------------
.
The forest is far below, the tops of the mountains nothing more than small points that glisten in the sun. I have never been this high before, flying with such carefree abandon, soaring on the thermals and riding the wind.
I am happy.
The world is far away, its troubles and its cares none of my concern. Up here there is only silence, peace and serenity. I breathe deeply, feeling the cool air rushing past my face, and I laugh. Normally, I would perhaps worry about being so high, aware of the lack of oxygen at these great heights, or worrying about the low temperatures so high up. But the concerns that seemed to have weighed me down in the past, don’t burden me now. I feel light, refreshed, alive, and when I breathe, each breath is a joy. Is this what it is always like to fly so high? To be able to finally let go, and truly soar like an eagle?
I look down, and notice that something has changed in the landscape below: the forest is slowly giving way to houses, and the mountains are growing taller, reaching up higher. Still, no need to worry. I am so far up. Nothing can reach me up here. Nothing can bring me down from such a high as the one I am on now.
I hear a noise, and I wonder what it can be that is disturbing me so high up in the sky, so cushioned by the miles of voluminous air, so insulated from the world so far below.
I look down and see with a sudden pang of concern that the mountains tops are no longer so far beneath me, tall impossible peaks now growing, elongating and snaking upwards from the ground, stretching up to reach me and to pluck me from the sky. And far, far below, the verdant green woods are now blurring with the dull grey buildings of a growing city, urban streets now slowly coursing their way up the sides of the foothills, expanding and swallowing up the beauty of the forests.
Something touches my leg, a granite peak nudging me forcibly as it pushes ever higher, and I topple forward, off balance, my streamlined path through the air rudely interrupted. I summersault forward, out of control and I begin to tumble, down, down, ever further downward. I strive to regain control, adjusting my profile to regain my streamlined flight through the air, spreading my arms outward, pointing my toes and my fingertips , and pushing my head backwards. Still I tumble, down, down, the peaks of the grotesque mountains now scratching the sky high above me.
I can hear cars now, buses, trains, the peeping of horns, people shouting, crying, televisions, radios, …and suddenly from above it all, I hear the sound of a hospital monitor, beep, beep, beep, ….then nothing. Death, I know, is only seconds away.
.
I look down, the ground is rushing towards me, faster, faster, so very close now.
Suddenly I see a woman directly beneath me, looking up at me, her arms outstretched, smiling, calling my name: “Andrew, Andrew,….it’s okay. I am here…”.
Her arms are open wide, her smile reassuring, her eyes twinkling in the sun. I am tumbling, falling, accelerating out of control. The woman calmly stretches out her arms even further, reaching out towards me, and then the miracle happens.
Slávka catches me.
.
I feel someone stroking my face, and I open my eyes. Slávka is looking at me, her eyes level with mine on the pillow. She is smiling at me. Not just a normal smile
, but the smile of someone who genuinely seems happy to see me. Welcoming me to the world today in the best way any human being can ever welcome another.
“Hey, sleepy boy. You were dreaming. I think you have nightmare? But now bad dreams are gone and you are with me. The doctor will take good care of you.”
She leans forward on the pillow and kisses me on my lips, then slowly draws me into her chest, wrapping her arms around me, and holding me close.
I close my eyes and I sleep again, although this time I do not dream.
This time I have no desire to escape.
.
--------------------------
.
Flights to Poprad are only on Saturdays and Wednesdays. When I fly out on the following Wednesday I am alone, the seat beside me occupied by a young Slovak girl who is clutching a dream of becoming an Au Pair in London, building a new life for herself, and finding an English boy to love her.
Slávka is sitting in another seat, the one in the rental car, driving from Poprad to Bardejov to spend a week-and-a-half visiting her parents and to meet up with her friends from the hospital in Bardejov where she studied and used to work. That was always the real purpose of her trip home.
“Do you want meet my parents?” she asked last night over dinner. “If you wish, you can come visit Bardejov too. I think my parents very surprised to meet you,” she laughs, “…but I know they would like to meet Scottish man,” she says, practising the word ‘to’ as I had taught her earlier that day.
“Maybe another time,” I had replied, both flattered and threatened by the suggestion. She nodded in agreement.
“Maybe other time..”
For two hours I sit in the airplane thinking about the past few days, remembering the touch of her fingers against my cheek, the taste of the salt in her mouth, the feeling of her smiling at me as I opened my eyes in the morning lying beside her in the hotel bed.
I remember the taste of blueberries, and the waterfall where Slávka and I first kissed; I remember how good it felt to walk hand in hand with her through the forest, to breathe the fresh air, and to drink cold Kelt beer together in a Chatta as we watched the sun go down over the horizon of a mysterious country that I have only just begun to discover.
As the plane circles above Stansted, I am filled with excitement. My life has changed, I know it already.
For years I have been searching for a harbour, somewhere I can lower anchor in the trust that no bad winds shall blow. Where I can let down my guard, and be myself, where I can let myself love and be loved in return, without fear for the future. It’s hard to describe how I know that after all these years Slávka is the person that I can finally trust. But I do. I know it in my bones.
There is something about this woman that is like a drug. The more I am with her, the less I can be without her. When I take the Slávka drug, I feel good. So very very good. High. Higher than I have felt in years. I have only been without her for a few hours, but already I am suffering the first signs of withdrawal.
The plane is coming into land now, touch down only minutes away. As the captain calls out across the speakers, telling us all to put up our seats and tuck away the tables, for the first time in days I think of the hospital, and what is waiting for me when I get home.
Then I think of Slávka again, and I am neither scared or alone.
.
When I get home the flat is empty. It’s eight o’clock. Guy has left a note on the kitchen table telling me to check the voice messages on the phone, and saying that we should talk as soon as possible.
There are four messages for me. One from Hannah, left on Sunday afternoon, and three from Gail. On the third message that I listen to she is crying, and I feel bad. I left London on Saturday without telling anyone where I was going, and whilst I was finding some happiness with Slávka, it sounds like Gail has been going through a hard time with Ben.
Looking at my watch, I wonder if I should call Guy on his mobile and let him know that I am back, but I realise that I can’t face him yet, so I call Gail.
When she picks up she sounds a lot happier than when she left the message, and when I ask her how it’s going with Ben, she says that he’s with her in her flat just now. “Can we meet for lunch tomorrow?” she whispers.
“Sure…”, I reply.
I apologise for not having called her back before, excusing myself by telling her that I just had to get out of London for a few days. I needed a break.
We are just hanging up, when she asks where I went.
“Slovakia,” I reply.
“Oh,…” she says, quietly, and she doesn’t enquire further.
.
The phone rings not long after I hang up with Gail, and even before I answer it I know that it’s Hannah.
I listen to her leave a message, but realise I’m not ready to call her yet. The questions she is going to ask, require answers that I’m not yet able to give.
I make myself a cup of tea and sit down in front of the television, idly playing with the remote control and flicking between the channels. Nothing seems able to capture my attention for long, and I find myself missing Slávka, thinking back upon the past few days, and remembering and replaying the intimacy that we shared together while locked in our hotel room in the Tatras Mountains.
I miss her, suddenly realising just how alone I am now that I am not with her. Not ‘alone’ as in sad and without company, but ‘alone’ as in being very conscious that there is an emptiness surrounding me that I had not experienced or seen in a long time, an emptiness that Slávka had defined simply by filling the space about me for the past four days and now being absent from it.
The TV screen is abruptly filled with the images of the bomb blasts on the 7th July, and I realise that I am watching a documentary about the terrorist attacks which is trying to relate them to last week’s failed attempts on the 21st. I feel a sudden longing to be back in the woods in the Tatra mountains again, away from London, away from the fear and continuing threat, the unending stress that seems to be going on, and on, and on.
My mind wanders, trying to escape, and soon I hear the sound of the waterfall crashing all around us, and once again I am kissing Slávka, trying to remember how it felt, trying to relive the sensation of that first kiss beside the large, turquoise mountain pool.
Slávka’s mobile rings several times then jumps to voicemail, and after listening to her voice asking me to leave a message, I hang up, only to call her again just so that I can hear her voice one more time.
“Hi, it’s me. I’m just calling to say…,” I start to leave a message, “...I just wanted to tell you that I had a fantastic time with you, and that I wish I had stayed with you in Slovakia. And for what it’s worth…I miss you.”
I wanted to say something else, but thankfully I caught myself just in time.
I spend the next half an hour impatiently hoping that she will call me back or send me a text message, but she does neither and I end up going to bed missing her and feeling slightly vulnerable: a feeling I do not like, and which makes me feel very uncomfortable and exposed.
.
Chapter Forty
.
.
When I wake up in the morning, Guy has already gone to work, leaving another message for me on the kitchen table.
“Andrew, We really need to talk. Can we meet this evening for a drink?”
It seems that nowadays, all the conversations between Guy and myself have been taking place through little notes left on the kitchen table. A sad state of affairs, but probably more my fault than Guys. I have been avoiding him.
I consider calling in sick to work, but decide against it. I’ll just go in late and make up some excuse when I get there: there’s something I have to do this morning that I can no longer avoid.
.
The relaxing weekend in Slovakia seems long ago as I stand on the platform waiting for the next tube train to arrive. My heart is palpitating, my forehead is clammy, and the palms of my hands
are sweating. I look around me and study my fellow commuters, and wonder how many of them are now as anxious as I am about travelling by tube, train or bus in London. The newspapers this morning are still full of articles about last Thursday’s failed terrorists attacks, and the Chief of the London Metropolitan Police is quoted again, warning all Londoners to remain vigilant and alert: “It’s not a question of ‘if’, but ‘when’ seems to be the prevailing feeling about another attack taking place.
It’s obvious that I am not a true Londoner. I seem to have none of the wartime spirit that helped Londoner’s stand up to the Germans and endure the blitz night after night. Instead I am just, putting it bluntly, scared shitless as I swallow hard and step aboard the next train as it arrives.
As soon as I am inside the carriage, the level of fear within me instantly multiplies, doubling, tripling, growing out of all proportion. I feel dizzy with fear, my heart is about to explode, and an overwhelming desire to scream rises within me. I am losing it.
I hear the electronic whistle go off within the carriage that signifies that the door is about to close, and I make a lunge for it, diving back onto the platform just in time.
I land in a heap, picking myself up as quickly as I can and ignoring the looks of other people on the platform, and I rush quickly for the stairs and the way out back up to street level.
I emerge a few minutes later, panting, exhausted, and sweating into the glorious sunlight and wonderful, unrestricted, safe, fresh air.
The thing is, I know that if I am going to carry on living in London, then I simply have no choice but to face my new fears. I have to conquer them, and I have to carry on living. But for now, …I just can’t.
I see a bus coming, and still shaking and shocked from the panic attack, I jump aboard and hide myself in a corner at the back of the bus. Ashamed. Scared. And feeling very, very stupid.
The Sleeping Truth : A Romantic Thriller (Omnibus Edition containing both Book One and Book Two) Page 28