Via Prague

It's getting easier, I think. Easier than it was three years ago, when I first arrived in Prague. Then I was just coming off four rollercoaster years at the T-S -- particularly the Gallegos saga, and the whole debate about the war -- and came here with a furious, unfocused determination, a confused striving. In a way I sort of ran straight into a brick wall, or rather several brick walls. Not just culture shock, I guess I also ran into too many pubs. Anyway, here we are at the close of my third year in Prague, year four of the great adventure begins.
Some things: You learn not to talk about the war, not if you can help it. At Pavels, in particular, it's nice to talk of other things. You meet people, and you do your best to be open and pleasant and not lose them even if you have to ask their name three or four times. It's OK, they'll often do the same. You also try not to talk about America, unless someone asks about it. Usually they ask sooner or later. 'Which part?' they ask. Sometimes I say Pittsburgh and sometimes I say California, depending on my mood. Both get nods of approval, California because it's California and Pittsburgh because Jaromir Jagr used to play for the Penguins. But as I said, you learn not to talk about it. You talk about Czech life, about Prague, about the latest gossip, about the movie that's showing that evening at Pavels. Yesterday we watched 'Supersize Me,' then the classic Czech film 'Svejk,' with Rusinsky playing the good soldier Svejk, and a Leonardo de Caprio film where he plays the French poet Rimbaud. I really love kinokavarnas, or movie cafes. Arcata would do well to open one. It's basically a cafe, where you can roll joints, smoke, drink, eat, talk and watch movies.
And keep listening and speaking, even if it's in a language you don't understand. In fact, sometimes it's better that way. Would you believe you can sometimes communicate more in a different language?
The other night we were at a pub called Barbera's, across the street from Pavels, and there were some faces I knew and some who were new to me. A young kid, probably late teens early twenties, with a two-toned ducky-style haircut (he bears a passing resemblance to Jon Cryer, if you remember from 'Pretty In Pink). He's been seeing Andrea, the prettiest (in my opinion, Gordon would prefer Kristiana) of a group of young girls who frequent Pavels. Like most young couples, they're totally into each other one moment, kissing in public, and then the next you can see there's been some drama off-stage, and our romantic young man disappears for a day or two. Andrea sits with her Coke and shares a joint and sympathetic sisterhood with the other girls, etc.
Anyway, their young love touched me, and vicariously I shared their hidden dramas, dispaired when hardship hit, rejoiced when young love triumphed once again, and the two sat thick as thieves, Andrea dove-eyed with adoration for her good man come back again. Lucky bastard.
That night, just after Christmas, Pavel's was closed so I was at Barbera's. As I walk in and say hello to familiar faces, I suddenly hear 'Cau!'
I turn and it's -- you guessed it -- our romantic young man.
'Cau,' I said. 'Hezky Vanoce.' That's Merry Christmas in Czech.
'Hezky Vanoce.' He has a big sloppy grin and a sort of muggish charm, and he has a goofy laugh. Altogether, there's something of the puppy about him, and I could see why Andrea liked him. Of course, my conversations with Andrea, back at Pavels, had up to that point consisted only of a few pleasantries. I'm nearly twice her age, and not wanting to come across as some clumsy lecher, was happy to keep things that way.
Still, I guess I've reached the age where you accept the fact that you're getting older, but I'm not ready to consign myself to old age. It's nice to talk with 'the younger generation' (I can't believe I actually used that expression).
So when a stool became available I sat next to the young man, and suddenly realized that although we'd seen each other numerous times at Pavels, we'd never been introduced. I told him my name and extended a hand.
'Smrta,' he said.
'Excuse me?' It was not a typical Czech name.
He repeated it a couple times, and even wrote it on a slip of paper. He then turned to the bartender. 'Jak se rekle Anglicke 'smrta?'
'Death,' somebody offered.
'Death?' I asked.
Death smiled his sloppy, puppyish grin.
'Nice to meet you,' I said, in Czech. 'I mean, maybe.'
Death, or Smrta, passed me the end of a joint. Then for the next few minutes he busied himself scrawling on a slip of paper. He then showed me his work. At first I wasn't sure what it was. Then with some more explanation (our conversation was, as always, in a horrid mixture of Czech and English), I realized it was a drawing of the Grim Reaper. The scythe was drawn badly, that's what threw me at first. I took the pen and elongated the scythe, emphasizing the slope of the blade. I handed it back to Smrta. He inspected it, then nodded with approval.
Silently I wondered if he was pulling my leg, about being named Death, but then said oh well, and figured it was a nickname, like back in Eureka I used to know these guys in the death metal band Transii. One of the guys, Marcus, everyone called Carcass. I figured it was something like that.
'And zivot?' I asked. Zivot means 'life.'
Smrta looked confused.
'Zivot?'
'Ano. Zivot.' I took the sheet of paper he'd drawn the Grim Reaper on and turned it over. I handed him the pen. 'Zivot,' I said.
Understanding, Smrta took the paper and pen. He spent several minutes scratching his head. Eventually he scribbled something and handed it to me. From what I can recall, it was a picture of a woman with a baby carriage, except there was a small sign above the carriage. It indicated that the baby was dead.
'Zivot?' I asked.
Smrta broke into laughter.
'Ano! Zivot!'
You can see many Czechs have a strong taste for cerne humor, or black humor.
I had an idea, so I grabbed another slip of paper and drew and embryo, starting with the form and working with the same line expanded waves around the child so that the wavy lines continued off the page.
Smrta studied it.
'Embyro?'
'Yes.''
He nodded.
It's too bad about the language barrier. You'd think after three years my Czech would be better. My only excuse is that as an English teacher, I spend the majority of my time speaking English, that's what they pay me for. And many Czechs, particularly younger ones, like to practice their English. Some even feel strangely affronted, as they say Parisians tend to be, if you try to speak Czech.
We got along OK for awhile. I asked about the girls.
'Kde je holky?' I asked. I didn't understand his reply. They were somewhere.
'Andrea is very nice,' I said.
'Andrea?' Smrta's eyes widened. Then he grinned. We talked about the girls. Andrea, Stevie, Kristiana ('Kiki!' Smrta said) and Simcha.
'Ano. Ano. Ale, Ale, Andrea je nelepsi!' Smrta said. But Andrea, she is the best.
'Ano.'
After a while, another regular, a stout middle-aged woman, intervened at that moment, thrust herself into the conversation with a drunk person's sense of propriety, and that was the end my conversation with Death, or Smrta. It's a pity, I would have liked to have learned more about him.
A couple nights later, Pavels re-opened, and on Friday afternoon I went in. The schools have been closed for the holidays, so I have a lot of free time. The girls were all there, except for the dark, raccoon-eyed one they call Simcha (short for Simona). Death was there as well. He got up and offered me a bite of his chocolate bar. I took a piece and said thanks, and also waved to Andrea. She smiled and waved back.
The couple sat and smoked and every now and then exchanged little kisses in that way young people do, and I supposed that all was well again. But presently, Smrta got up and with a little kiss and wave, was gone. Then the other girls after a while left too. I suddenly found myself alone with Andrea.
'Kde je Smrta?' I asked.
She shrugged.
'Mate Hezky Vanoce?' I asked.
'Ano. Nice Christmas.' She smiled.
Later she was sitting with another girl who I didn't know. Gordon had come in for a little while, but then left early because as he said, he needed to spend time with the Mrs. So I was alone. On impulse, I got up and went over to the table where the girls sat. They smiled when I sat down. We talked for a while of general things. Then I noticed Andrea had some scratches on her forehead.
'What happened?' I asked, pointing to the scratches.
I'm not sure I understood her answer, but she sort of shrugged it off. Then I asked about Death.
'His name is Tomas,' Andrea said.
'Tomas?'
She smiled again.
OK, so his name was really Tomas. Not quite the same ring as Death, but it is a nice typical Czech name.
What's the point, you ask? I don't really know. But going back to what I said up top, I'm learning -- after three years, I hope so -- that sometimes it's better not to understand much, and just put yourself out there. Maybe you make mistakes, or sometimes drink too much or spend too much money, but you pick up something too. I can now say I had a conversation with Death, or at least I did until I found out his name was really Tomas. It's nice to know you can still meet people, even if you don't speak the same language. You don't' always have to. It sounds like a cliche, and it is, but there is a universal language -- beer being one of them I know, but also fellowship. You learn when people want to receive you and also to respect days when they want to keep to themselves. That happens sometimes. Sometimes I'm tired and not in the mood to speak my broken Czech, and am content to sit with Gordon and talk about his new business, or just watch whatever movie is showing and drink beer and wait until Islam comes out and he sits awhile.
I've been playing with New Year's resolutions, but have hesitated to get set on one until after I get back from Paris in a fortnight. One I've been playing with is to spend less time at Pavels, and another to drink less beer, another to stop smoking, another would be to take up boxing (just for the conditioning). But as with all resolutions, you are careful about making promises that will back you into a corner. Part of me wants to live a healthier life, but another fears getting closed off I guess. Since I've lived in Prague I've met a great deal of people, from all over the world. But Prague is also a transient city, like most capital centers. People come and go. I've stayed, in part because it's the most convenient choice at the moment, I don't have much money, but the city suits me and I'm used to it, and it's proximity to the other major European capitals makes it ideal for travelling. But like all cities, you can get sucked down into the grind if you let yourself, and so it's important to get away. That's why I'm going to Paris. Sometimes I say I'm tired of Prague and should move on, say, to China. I'm still playing with that option too. But I also realize it's winter, the dead season, the melancholy and dark season, where you wake up and it's dark and cold, and outside the trees are stripped and the ground hard-bitten, and the wind blowing through you and you can never feel quite warm unless you're in a cafe or pub and around people (yes, even Death was warm). But the spring, when the Prague spring comes, everything is new again, a vital force comes flowing up the Vltava, pumping greenness and freshness and a fragrant smell to the city, and the sidewalks become full of tables again and the people sit outside, and the beer gardens are open up at Letna and Riegrovy Sady and you see people again that you haven't seen since last summer. You feel vastly thankful for the spring, and want to live in it forever.
I see I've gotten away from my conversation with Death, or Tomas. Well, I'm sure I'll see him again at Pavels in the next day or two.