The Chimera of Prague

Prologue

Before we jump right into the story, about an American man in his late twenties taking a gap year in Prague to find himself (not to write a novel because that dream is dead), it’s essential to know a few things about the Czech Republic. Notice I say the Czech Republic and not Czechoslovakia. Czechoslovakia has not existed since 1993. After an amicable split, it’s now Slovakia and the Czech Republic. It’s okay if you don’t know these things, Joseph only learned them because he lived there.

First, Name Days. In the Czech Republic, every day is someone’s name day (Svátek or jmeniny in Czech — the latter being more formal). In the recent past, it was celebrated more than a person’s birthday. Wish the person a Happy Name Day, buy them flowers and a box of chocolates. Never give a friend an even number of flowers. Such bouquets are used at funerals. The number of flowers in a Name Day bouquet must be odd.

Name Days are important. Joseph studies them. He has a Name Day calendar hung in his kitchen, wherever he lives in Prague. Each time a new person is recorded in his journal, he has taken to marking their Name Day next to their name, as a way of remembering. To achieve the same effect in the book, I have added the Name Day in parentheses at the first mention of a new name, although in reality, Joseph has known some of these Czech folks since before the book starts.

Second, date formats. Joseph uses the Czech format for dates in his journal. He denotes the day first, the month next, and the last two digits of the year last. It makes more sense to write it this way, but that’s beside the point. The minute he moves back to the States, he goes back to the standard date format used. Here, his temporary transformation is useful, particularly in April, when his mother visits. Her journal entries are included along with Joseph’s, for the duration of her stay. She uses the standard date format, so it’s easy to know whose entry we are reading.

Third, what’s all this about a gap year? Isn’t a gap year supposed to be between high school and college? Joseph is twenty-eight years old — apparently, this is not a gap year in that sense. No, you’re right. Joseph’s gap year is different. For him, it’s a gap between his divorce and the rest of his life. A gap between the untimely death of his dream of writing a novel and whatever comes next. He was able to set aside some money, and he was able to convince his Bank in New York to give him a leave of absence for a year. That explains the gap part of it. But the year hasn’t been a year. The year has been more than a year. In fact, he quit that bank job, sent back the laptop, all that. See, his money held out longer than he thought possible, and by the time he got to the end of the first year, he didn’t know what else to do, so he decided to stay. He’s subsisting on small contracting gigs here and there, and he was able to apply for and receive a hardship deferral on his student loans. His loans aren’t forgiven — they’ll be waiting for him when he gets back to reality. In the meantime, he’s going to make a go of it and see what happens.

We’ll begin with a journal entry on the day when his infatuation with a particular young woman originates. It’s true, he has declared his dream of writing a novel is dead, but he decides journaling doesn’t count. He’s not a writer.

Part I

MARCH

Loving, 6.3.1998

I love Prague more than ever. This ancient magical city has me under a spell. Yesterday I walked across the Charles Bridge, leaving my past behind and connecting to my future. On the other side, I met the girl of my dreams. Her name is Karina (January 2).

What’s so wrong in my past that I had to change continents, you ask? Oh, it’s nothing. I divorced the girl of my dreams, and then I declared my dream of writing a novel dead. I’m a dream graveyard. But who cares about all that? I’m young, and this is just whining. It’s good to clear the air and to finally see.

In my near future, I will find a new flat. In my fantasies, I convince Karina to move in with me. I can visualize it. She’s all I see. I love her. I don’t know her.

I prayed last night. I made an earnest request for Karina; then I took it back. I don’t know, I guess I’m afraid to let myself dream of a future with her; that’s how badly I want her. Now I think I’ll renew my prayer. God loves love. He knows my heart. If the stars align, if the time is right, maybe we have a chance. Maybe I don’t deserve to dream, to fantasize. That’s fair. I’ll never know if I don’t try.

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Charles Bridge

Construction on the bridge commenced in 1357 under the direction of King Charles IV and was not completed until the 15th century. Formerly referred to as the Stone Bridge or the Prague Bridge, since 1870 it has been called the Charles Bridge. It spans the Vltava River, connecting Mala Straná (literally the little side of the river, commonly referred to as the Lesser Quarter) to the Old Town.

More precisely construction commenced on the Charles Bridge at 5:31 am on July 9th, 1357, with the first stone being placed by King Charles IV himself. This exact time was essential to the Holy Roman Emperor because he was an avid believer of numerology and this specific time, which formed a numerical bridge (the year 1357, 9th day, 7th month, 5:31 am — or 1-3-5-7-9-7-5-3-1), would imbue the span with additional strength.

It’s a bow bridge consisting of 16 arches shielded from danger below by ice guards. From above it’s protected by three gothic bridge towers, two on the Mala Straná side, and one on the Old Town side. The bridge is decorated with an alley of 30 statues, initially erected in 1700, now replaced with replicas.

From 1621, after the Battle of White Mountain, 27 of the leaders of the Protestant movement in Bohemia were beheaded. Twelve of the severed heads were displayed on the Charles Bridge as a deterrent against the resistance. The heads stayed there for more than ten years until they were removed at night and buried secretly at an undisclosed location.

The 30 statues represent saints and patron saints important to the history of Bohemia. St. Vitus can be found nearer to Mala Straná — the patron saint of dancers, he was martyred in the third century for refusing to pray to pagan gods. For his transgression he was thrown to the lions — the lions, rather than mauling him, licked and nuzzled him. Unsatisfied with this result, his captors threw him and a rooster into a cauldron of boiling oil.

St. Vitus is also venerated as the patron saint against oversleeping.

Another martyred saint on the bridge is St. John of Nepomuk. His transgressions against King Wenceslaus IV, the king of Bohemia, were multiple. John was the confessor of the Queen of Bohemia, and when the king demanded to know her sins, John held his tongue. The king was enraged.

Next, John displeased the king with the election of an abbot. It was at the time of the Great Schism of the Catholic Church, and while the King of Bohemia was loyal to the Anti-Pope of Avignon, John revealed his loyalty to the Pope of Rome by confirming the abbot. For his crime, St. John and four others complicit in the election were summoned to the castle. The four others recanted, but again, John kept his tongue still. He was tortured, bound and thrown to his death off the bridge into the river.

His body was later recovered, and placed in a giant silver tomb within the cathedral of St. Vitus. After three hundred years, the tomb was opened. Inside they found a pulsating reddish sliver of live flesh; an uproar swept across Prague. The tongue of St. John lived on! That year, work began on a church dedicated to St. John in a five-pointed star design. Now petrified and mounted on a silver platter, the severed tongue is on display in the star-shaped church surrounded by cheeky cherubs cast in silver.

A plaque depicting St. John’s body being thrown into the river can be found on the bridge attached to his statue — his image shines brightly as tourists for centuries have believed that touching his form, hanging arms outstretched upside down from the bridge by a crowd of executioners, is good luck.

Perhaps my favorite statue on the bridge is St. Joseph, patron saint of workers, and of course the foster father of Jesus. He is shown leading a young Jesus by the hand. Not as exciting as the other tortuous scenes, but it reminds me of our St. Joseph’s Day feasts growing up at my great-grandparent’s house in Brockton, New York. I would have been the same age as the boy Jesus in the statue. Nana would lay on a great spread with homemade pasta sauce that would bubble on the stove all day, meatballs, fresh bread and smelt, all bony, oily and fragrant.

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I don’t stop to consider or pose in front of any of these depictions of ancient atrocities on my walk across the bridge. Instead, I float on a sea of tourists, enjoying the rare warmth of a spring day, and feeling the magic of this old city, enjoying the sturdy girth of a centuries-old stone bridge arching across the Vltava river and history. Maybe it can sustain me.

Lusting, 15.3.98

Let me be clear. I’m not a writer. I have decided to record my experiences in a journal merely as an observer. So I can remember how it happened. The way it really happened. I didn’t keep a journal throughout my break-up, and now I wish I had. Memory is too kind. Ink is indelible. This journal is my weapon. I use it to fight misty-eyed romanticism.

I’m here at the Terminal Bar, I’m making eyes at yet another taken girl.

This girl I’m making eyes at, red hair. Emerald eyes, like a snake. Thin. Small bosom. A pixie. But she has a dumb hunky guy with her. Her own personal golem. It’s a shame she has poor taste.

I shouldn’t judge. God punishes me with vexing visions. I’m at the end of my thread-bare rope at the Terminal Bar.

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Terminal Bar

An Internet café as well as an Internet service provider, a bar, a bookstore and home to a vast collection of English-language VHS and DVD movies, the Terminal Bar opened in 1997 on Soukenicka 6 in Prague 1, just off of Revolunci. Which fits. The idea was revolutionary in this former Soviet Republic satellite. The Terminal Bar is the brainchild of Hank and Ian and their friend Christian Potter, a self-described hip alchemical Central European and an epic drunk. While Christian has provided the initial funding, Hank is a community organizer and former squatter’s rights activist; Ian is a brilliant Brit, who can play a mean game of Scrabble, and has an opinion on nearly any movie ever created.

As you enter from Soukenicka, you find yourself in the bar. Silver circles are the theme. Circular gris Perla granite tables with chairs painted silver along the wall on the right. On the left, a funky bar made of circles of white granite countertops, overlapping one another, one higher and one lower, with stools upholstered in glittery silver pleather. Behind the bar, there are mirrored shelves holding bottles of liquor against a mirrored backsplash, up to the ceiling. Recessed lights shine down. The walls all around the bar are silver. Music is playing all the time, it’s not too loud, but it’s always interesting, generally following a theme that Ian and team have come up with. One night, beach music from the sixties, the next night themes from James Bond movies, the next night French techno.

Once through the length of the bar, you come to a set of high-top tables arranged diagonally with Internet terminals on both sides of the aisle. The room is painted a neutral beige, and the finish on the wall is swirls of stucco. The floors are a dark wood. The terminals are for rent, and there is a signup sheet at the bar. There are no speakers here, and the sounds you hear are clacking keyboards, people chatting while pointing at screens, the creaking wooden floor.

The bookstore comes next. Built-in shelves line the right wall, while the other three walls have been outfitted with metal rail shelves. Books, DVDs, and VHS tapes are stacked every which way. The walls in the bookstore are painted dove gray. There are tables in the bookstore. Many of the books that are for sale have been thumbed through — customers sip on coffee, and browse. The mood in the bookstore is quiet, reflective.

At the extreme back of the building, you get to the yellow room. Egg yolk yellow. The entire roof of this section has been torn off and replaced with a pyramid skylight. Full service from the bar and kitchen are offered here. In the center of the room is a tree, planted in a bed of soil that is fully encapsulated.

In addition to these four rooms, The Terminal Bar has three levels. Taking the stairs leading down from the bookstore you come to a free-floating walking bridge. One more staircase down and you get to the basement where they show movies and do other events including poetry readings, and book launches.

Ian has personally built the English-language VHS and DVD collection housed by the Terminal Bar, and he has scribed detailed reviews for all of them. Hank left the Czech Republic to move back to the States before the Terminal Bar officially opened. Ian has taken the reins.

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My heart has four rooms and three levels. My heart is a Terminal Bar. It’s nothing revolutionary.

When your dreams die, they don’t leave a mark. There is no scar. It’s just Poof. Like it never existed.

Journaling, 17.3.98

I’m back at the Terminal Bar. I missed the last tram on purpose; to see more of Karina. I can’t help myself. I’m hopeless. I quote myself, Never fall in love with a waitress. Yet here I am. I can’t believe it. I’m high on life. And jet lag. I’d love to ask if I can walk her home. She’ll probably have boys lined up.

Let me try and forget her. Let me try and distract myself.

Shot of a black-haired young man in tortoiseshell glasses sitting at a wobbly café table in the front of a bar. He is hunched over a stack of paper ripped from a day planner, with a borrowed pen. Next to him, a glass of red wine, a Cabernet Moravia. He leans forward. Zoom in on the pen, reaching down for the paper in his left hand. The surfaces of the wine in the glass jostles. As the pen touches, we hear the scratch amplified, and the scene fades to black. Voice over reads, Joseph is obsessed with his lovely tall waitress. Why does he do that? Why does he find a woman he knows nothing about, except that she’s easy on the eyes, and decide to throw himself into love? Maybe it was something that happened to him, some early experience in his love life, something that got bent in him, and has never had a chance to straighten out. Maybe it has something to do with Dani. Black fades to a fly-over shot of Letchworth Gorge, an October shot, the foliage red, yellow, orange. Vibrant, with water rushing by. The title appears in white, Verdana bold, lower right corner.

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Strata

The walls of the Letchworth Gorge were cut by the Genesee River over a period of three to five million years. At the upper and lower ends, the walls are new and steep; in the middle, the oldest part of the gorge, the bottom is wide and thick with ancient sediment. The fresher lines were cut by the retreat of glacial ice a scant thirteen thousand years ago, revealing the striped bedrock. The Seneca tribe treasured the river, flowing north from the Allegheny Plateau through the heart of what would become New York State and mouthing into Lake Ontario. They thrived along its banks until the Beaver Wars, and the American Revolution killed off the able-bodied men, while the elderly, the women and the children left behind migrated to the west and the north. In 1797, white settlers started to build villages along the depopulated river. Writers first interpreted the Seneca word Zinoschaa — beautiful valley — later known as the Genesee River.

At a table in a kitchen, in the village of Union Corners in the fall of 1988, a young man and a young woman kiss for the last time. Within a few months, the New Year would chime in, cooling and solidifying their drama. Time, like a river, flows on, rounding the sharp edges, leaving behind layers and layers of sediment.

Two years they had been together. In this very kitchen, they made dinner together for the first time. Lots of firsts here, this one made of spaghetti and meatballs. They had the lights dimmed, with John Cougar Mellencamp playing on the radio. What Joseph remembers most was dessert — a hot fudge brownie with melting vanilla ice cream. Daniella sat on his lap and spooned it into his mouth. A vague smile at the memory is wiped from his face. This is not the time for fond memories.

I have something to say, she states. Joseph was afraid he was going to have to say this part. Something happened while you were away.

He says, Okay. He doesn’t feel okay. He thinks he’s ready.

She smiles. She’s about to continue. Her nose crinkles. Her lips change.

The night of the party, Kyle asked if he could walk me home. It was late. All the streetlights were out. I didn’t know they turned them out when it got late. No. Wait. That’s not true, I did. She laughs. I knew that. Sorry. He knows what’s coming. He thinks he may be psychic or something.

Kyle stopped in front of me, and... Her eyes, like the waters of the Genesee River, reflect their surroundings. One day, olive green, one day hazel, she has camouflage eyes. He kissed me. She laughs.

He smiles at her. He pretends he doesn’t care. He says, almost in a whisper, Good. He’s surprised; hearing himself, it sounds false. That’s maturity, he figures. Faking it. He knows jealousy is stupid. He feels a gorge opening in his chest.

He’s cute. You know? She turns her head, grimaces. A muscle in her neck tenses. She catches herself. With her eyes closed, she squares her brow to him. As she opens her eyes, a single tear slips off an eyelash and makes its way down her cheek. Quick, she wipes it away. I wanted to. I wanted to kiss him. I’m sorry. Sniffling, she smiles through her tears. He doesn’t know what to do.

Joseph has no right, but he feels it. He knows he has no claim.

Dani wipes her tears on the cuff of her sweater. She bites her lip.

You still... You don’t have to, she stops. Her face collapses. Her hands come up. For a single tick on the apple clock above the gas range, she sobs. Determined, she catches herself. Her hand drops away. Want some coffee?

She gets up and pours herself half a cup. She adds milk. The pale liquid nearly overflows onto the tablecloth decorated with apples. She adds a spoonful of sugar.

You and coffee. I don’t understand it. I guess you’re just more grown up than I am, Joseph says. Dani looks at the table and stirs …clink, …clink, …clink.

Listen, he continues. It’s okay. Something happened in… Something happened to me too. I kissed Michelle. He says it before he has a chance to think it through.

She puts the spoon in her mouth. For a second, her eyes are empty, depopulated. She pulls the spoon out clean and sets it on the table. She aligns the spoon between her middle and ring fingers. What did Aaron think of that?

Well, he laughs, That’s the funny part. He doesn’t exactly know.

Oh. The cup comes up to her mouth. She blows a kiss across the striped surface. She takes a sip, swallows. I thought you guys were friends. The cup comes up again. Her mouth and nose, the spray of freckles that darken in the summer and lighten in the fall, are obscured. The mug says BOSS on it. She sips.

We are. I think Aaron knows. I mean, I didn’t tell him. He blinks. His eyes narrow. So, tell me. This kiss. How was it? I mean, are you in love — with him?

Stupid question. Joseph owes Dani more respect than that. She’s the queen of time, she’s a force of nature, like the Genesee River. His throat goes dry. The gorge expands, cutting into the bedrock of his chest. The edges erode, twinkling. He’s afraid there’ll be nothing left.

She sets the cup down. She fingers the handle.

It was like… It was friendly. It was nothing really. He said he’s had a crush on me since we were in the tenth grade.

He snorts, Who didn’t? He can feel his eyelids flutter. Here, he leans over the edge of the table, Kiss me like you kissed him.

She leans back in her chair and laughs. Her eyes are swollen. Are you serious?

What is it about her smile, so soon after crying? It’s a tired smile, ashen. Layers and layers of sentiment.

I’m Kyle, he says. I’ve had a crush on you since the tenth grade. Duh. No, wait. I’m sorry. That’s not true. I’m me… Remember the pond…?

Color flushes into her face as she recalls that day in the county park. They’ll always have that. A salty tear catches in her eyelashes. She blinks.

He leans out of his seat, neck outstretched. Dani’s reluctant. She lowers her cup.

She wipes her mouth with the side of her hand and stands. Her thigh brushes the corner of the table as she rounds it. The apples on the tablecloth bulge and ripple. She stands above Joseph. He pries his eyes up to hers.

Don’t think I won’t. I don’t care, Dani says. Joseph’s hand finds the beautiful valley in the small of her back just under the waist of her jeans.

It’s okay. I want to kiss you anyway.

She laughs, and her eyes disappear. Okay. She tries to stop laughing. She closes her eyes again and swallows. She takes a breath through her nostrils. She opens her eyes. Okay. Shit, here.

She leans over him. He smells her wool sweater, her apple shampoo, her coffee. She kisses him. It’s soft. Her lips are open and motionless. She allows herself to savor him, one last time. He tastes different, salt, grass. The cinnamon is gone. A chink in her armor, but not in her resolve. His hand slides down a leg. His wrist curls around the back of a knee. Rounding sharp edges. She pulls her face away. Her eyes fall somewhere below his chin. She stands. Her hand flows north, up to her mouth. She turns her back and pulls away from his hands.

Like that. It was nothing. We’re friends. That’s what I told him. He walked me the rest of the way home. She goes back to her chair. She sits, one leg folded underneath.

I love you. He says it. He flat out says it. He’s said it to her before. Many times. Not like this. So desperate. Too vulnerable. He thinks: probably not the time. Maybe there is no right time to say how you feel, how you think you feel. Is there a difference?

I love you, too. He hears the words. She said them. Both her hands hold the cup in front of the lower half of her face. Like a reflex. Like on the phone when you’re saying goodbye and your mind’s already on the term paper that’s not yet typed or the basketball game coming up or the Sadie Hawkins dance on Friday that she can’t come to because she lives 30 miles away. Distance is in their way. She might’ve wanted to love him, they had the Beastie Boys show at the University of Buffalo, they had U2 at Silver Stadium when Bono was in a sling, they had the ice promise, the dandelion ring, the time at the falls, they had the Inferno dance club out by the Buffalo International Airport. They fantasized about reconfiguring their long-distance relationship from Bowling Green, Ohio to Cambridge, Massachusetts in the fall.

But she can’t deny the way the words came out. Words devoid of meaning. They didn’t register in his young heart. The way the words didn’t click the time she screamed, I hate you! I hate you! I hate you! She didn’t mean it, he figured at the time, she’s just hurt. He’d had to stop and think to remember what it was he said that could have stung her, and when he did, it didn’t seem like much, would leave a small streak in the strata of bedrock.

She doesn’t finish her coffee. Sips at it, never less than half full. Her mother comes into the kitchen as if she’s been standing offstage, waiting for her cue. He answers her mother’s cordial questions — he’s always liked her mother — and watches Daniella, and her ice promise, disappear out of the corner of his eye.

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Struggling, 18.3.98

High on my way home, I stopped at the Terminal Bar. Sure enough, Karina was working. She scrambles my senses. I had two colas, I browsed through a few books, I checked my email. In short, I did everything I could to hang out there as long as possible, and then I bolted to catch the last tram. I struggled. Go home and read a book, or make a play for the girl? I grappled with the question for a good five minutes; felt like an hour. The tram pulled up. I stood at the door. I watched it close. On me. It pulled away. I was resigned to fate.

I walked back to the Terminal Bar. I couldn’t imagine going through the door. I visualized it. I decided on red wine. I decided to ask for paper and pen. An excuse to sit alone. I didn’t want to seem lonely or desperate. Tough call. I walked in.

The back room where Karina had been working was closed. I took a wobbly table in the front. I got a red wine. I watched a Jackie Chan movie on the television above the bar. Karina came out in a red sweater. I averted my eyes. When I looked again, she was gone. I asked the bartender for pen and paper. I scribbled while I waited.

I rehearsed asking Karina if I could walk her home. She never came. I got up and made for the night tram.

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Night Tram

The Prague Tramway (streetcar) system is the largest in the Czech Republic. It consists of over 88 miles of track, 931 trams painted red on the bottom and a pale yellow on the top, 25 daytime routes, and nine nighttime routes, covering more than 320 miles of territory. It began operation in 1875 with horses pulling the trams, and switched over to electric power in 1891.

Night trams operate between midnight when the day trams and the underground Metro stops, and 5 or 6 am. Because they have to cover more ground, night trams have different routes from their daytime routines. All night trams converge on Lazarska in the city’s center, with several other interchanges available.

On night trams you can expect to find sleeping babičky, grandmothers in English, with their reusable checkered zipper bags beneath their crossed feet. Drunkards who insist on trying to make conversation with you. American, Canadian, British, and Australian expats trying to get home from the bars and clubs without having to pay for a cab.

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Like the night trams, I cover more ground in the wee hours. I have a different circuit I run at night from the one I run during the day. I’m a vessel of transport. I can take you home.

Remembering, 19.3.98

I get discouraged. About many things.