Chapter 2
The lock on the cell door made a loud clicking sound, and the door swung open. I was already awake. There was a sink next to the toilet, but no water. I hadn’t had a shower in two days. So much for making a favourable impression on the judge.
When the door opened, four uniformed cops stood in the entrance. They signaled, and I followed them into the hallway. My bag was sitting next to the door. The police had me stand against the wall while they busied themselves with some papers at the desk.
One of the cops, who sat behind the desk, said something to me in Czech.
‘Rozumite?’
‘Nerozumim.’
One of the other cops disappeared and came back triumphantly with a dictionary. They flipped through it until they found what they wanted.
‘Soudce. Judge.’
‘Ano, soudce. Dnesky ?’
‘Ano.’
So it must be 930 then. Time to go see the judge.
After a few minutes of more business at the desk, they gave my shoes back to me. I took off the issued slippers, and upon instruction, placed them into a shelf containing dozens of identical pairs. It felt good to have my shoes on again. The night before, when I arrived, and saw brown suits in little piles, it had been really bad. The thought of wearing it – for that’s when there’s a true transformation, when they take your clothes. Your identity is taken. They let me keep my clothes, except the shoes, and I took it as a good sign. If it was really bad, they would have put you in the brown suit. They would because they expected to keep you. So they must be expecting that you’ll leave today.
Then they were ready to go. One of the cops, a young guy obviously impressed with his position, came over and with a few jaunty remarks put the handcuffs back on. They were a jolly bunch, all joking and laughing together. That’s OK, let them joke all they want. As long as I get out of here today.
We went down the hall, down a set of grey stairs, and out to the parking garage, where a blue van was waiting, the same kind of van they’d taken me from the airport. I was put in the back seat again, handcuffed, hands in the lap, my bag next to me.
It was a bright, sunny morning. As they drove, I looked around the neighbourhood, trying to get my bearings. The night before they had said it was in Nusle, but nothing registered as I looked around. We drove several blocks, the sunlight bouncing in off the uniforms of the officers, and they were all in high spirits. I guess cops just like to drive around.
Well, you’ll be out of this soon. Maybe. What if the judge doesn’t let you go? He might decide you’re a risk. After all, they tried finding you before. That night when there was a buzz at the door, and a shock passed through you, and you didn’t answer, but just stayed still with the lights out, hearing the voices in the hall, talking with the neighbour, and then waiting until the sounds were gone and creeping out into the night, all the while on the lookout for a patrol car … You never know. He might just decide to keep you until a court date. This had to be an arraignment, right? I mean, if they arrested you yesterday, then isn’t that what happens next? Is it then they decide to let you go or keep you? But this isn’t America . Maybe they do things differently. Probably. What if the judge is an old ex-Communist who would love nothing more than to make your life miserable for the next few weeks? And what will you do if they don’t let you go? What about work? What if they deport you? Can they do that? And what will you do, and where will you go?
Herb had said to be curious about everything, and so I tried to be. In the mornings I ran to catch the metro to my first class, and made a point of grabbing one of the free dailies from the distributors. Even though I couldn’t understand the text, I enjoyed browsing, picking out words here and there, and from time to time gathering understanding from pictures and context. In transit between classes, the city flickered by from the tram or the back of the bus, the nebulous districts south of Vysehrad near the prison, the rows of panalaky, and the omnipresent billboards that, as in America , screamed for the attention of the subconscious.
I even enrolled in a Czech class with two other American teachers, and ambitiously set out to master the peculiar intricacies of Slavic declanations and pronunciation. But then a conflict came in my schedule and so after a few struggling weeks I had to give it up.
From time to time, say, when I noticed a ragged flier hanging in a shop window, a story idea would whisper, but more often than not I did nothing, simply “pocketed” the idea with the intention of following up later. Inevitably I’d rush along to the next class, and what whatever whispers had collected would soon die away, scattered by the forces of grammar and pronunciation.
I contacted the Prague Post, but I'd done that also back in California prior to arriving in Prague. The news editor, Joan Withers, a sharp-mannered East Coaster with a veteran air, had been direct. 'The media in a post-Communist society is NOTHING like in California,' her email had advised. 'Best to be humble.' Perhaps I'd been a bit too 'fresh,' talking about how I'd won an award, covered Sacramento politics.
Thinking it best to take the initiative, I contacted WIthers with a few story ideas. I'd heard about an American, an English teacher, who'd collapsed from pneumonia and awakened in the hospital and presented with a $2,000 bill. Considering the Post's main readership (it's an English newspaper) would be foreigners, travelers, teachers, ran the idea by Withers of the unfortunate teacher's story. Her reply came the same day. I could almost hear her groan.
'We have no time to write stories about foriegners from much richer countries complaining about the system here,' she wrote. 'My advice would be to get out and learn Czech. Real Czech and not pub Czech. Then maybe your stories won't seem so idiotic.'
The Marquis de Sade in those days still lived up to its name, a cozy, dirty dive with wooden floors and high, red-painted ceilings. There were pictures of naked prostitutes from the 19th Century on the walls and the bathrooms were puke-stained, ill-smelling holes. The owner was a pudgy, seldom sober American, who had an inexplicable habit of firing his entire bar staff at random every six months or so. Later when he sold the place there were rumours he’d come in one afternoon blind drunk and there was some incident involving a hatchet but this was never confirmed.
It was an average crowd that night. By then it was nearly twelve.
We sat next to a table of students, mostly German and Scandanavian. Within a few minutes we were being introduced to the table.
“Sven,” said the one nearest to us. He was a German law student.
Tanner got everyone embroiled in a discussion on the EU. This was a few months before France and Denmark voted down the Constitution. I’d had a few by then and don’t recall the exact twists and turns of the discussion. Sven was stauchly EU, I remember that, but only because Marja and I joked about it later.
Marja. She was sitting on the other side of the table, squeezed in between a quiet German guy and a pretty girl she introduced as Suvi.
I might not have noticed them except for I blundered into the stiff argument Sven and Tanner were having.
“I think we should have a world government,” I said idiotically.
This announcement was met with a chorus of voices, adding to the general din.
“Tell us more about your ‘idealistic vision.’” Marja - she introduced herself later - made quote marks with her hands. She had a friendly, accented voice.
A little later we sat together.
“Sven is so boring,” she said.
“He is very serious.”
“He is always talking about boring things. Like should Turkey join the EU. The EU is his favorite topic.”
“What should we talk about?” I asked.
“I am Finnish,” she said, laughing. “We don’t talk very much.”
But she did talk though. She was 23, her parents ran an appliance store in a small town, she was studying sociology and economics, and was in Prague on a six-month program at Charles University .
A little later the bar was closing up. The guys wanted to head to Batallion, but I had an early class. Marja’s friends had already left too, leaving the two of us talking.
Outside a fresh, light snow was falling. It’s always a little warmer when it snows but it was still cold. We caught a night tram, which was nearly empty except for a couple of drunks slumped over in their seats.
We sat facing each other, and as the tram rolled through the street she was suddenly quite familiar.
“Herb was right.”
“What?”
“Herb, a friend of mine. He said I needed to get out more.”
She smiled.
“You’re going to miss your tram.”
We spent a lot of time together. It was much easier in her company to get around the city, and enjoy things.
We spent many late nights out at the pubs, drifting in and among her friends and mine. She shared a flat in Smichov, a neighborhood on the southeast end of the city, with six other students. Her room was in a loft on the top floor. It was a small room, sparcely furnished. The ceiling slanted sharply at a diagonal angle, and there was a window there that if you opened it you could stick your head out the roof and look out at the city.
Usually it was snowing when we awoke, so we rolled over and pulled the blankets tight and went back to sleep, or else in semi-consciousness talked to each other, lay close, and went back to sleep.
“I used to have these dreams of planes crashing,” she said one morning.
“What do you think it meant?”
“I don’t know. The planes would just crash.” She laughed, illustrating it with her hands.
“But I haven’t had that dream in a long time,” she added.
“Another time I dreamed I was pulling Sven’s hair and then there was a car crash.”
“Maybe you’re in love with Sven.”
“No, I hate him. Besides, he is gay, I think.”
“What’s with all the crashes?”
“I don’t know what it says about my unconcious mind. What do you dream about?”
“I never remember.”
“Oh, you are an old man,” Marja said.
“Does it bother you?”
“No, I like it. You are my old man.”
“Let’s go back to sleep.”
“OK.”
“What is it like in Finland ?”
“It’s boring.” It was another Sunday.
“Would I like it?”
“Oh, you must come.”
“I will. Maybe in spring.” She was leaving in May. “What do you do there?”
“I just go to school. And in the evenings I have folk dancing, and of course we go to the sauna later.”
“I would like to try folk dancing - and the sauna.”
“Yes it would be nice. I could get you the traditional costume.”
“What does it look like?”
“It’s nothing special. A white shirt, dark pants and a vest.”
“I’d like it.”
“I’m hungry.” Marja rolled over and looked at me.
I got dressed and headed out. The McDonald’s was just down the street. I came back with four cheeseburgers and the Fanta. We ate in bed. With the food, I started to come out of the drowsy world. I thought about Roztoky. It seemed very far away. Everything seemed far away. It was Sunday so there was no need to be anywhere.
“What are you thinking about?” Marja asked.
“About Sunday.”
“What about it?”
“It’s always been my favorite day.”
“We should get some pancakes later.”
“That sounds good.”
Philadelphia
“Come on, let’s go. You can’t sleep here.”
The bartender, an American, didn’t say it rudely, and I think he only said it because the manager, a dour, middle-aged woman, told him to.
The man rose slowly to a sitting position. I didn’t notice until he was sitting up how massively built he was. He seemed to rise higher and expand, first languidly and then quickly, like a freight train approaching from the distance. He had been lying on his jacket, or it had somehow ended up beneath him during his sleep. With a disoriented tint his eyes drifted out into the darkened bar as he lifted and pulled the jacket out from underneath and set it on his lap.
I took him in casually, focusing more on my beer and cigarette. He looked to be in his mid-forties, with skin that was like charcoal, a deep but porous ebony.
“What time is it?” he asked.
“Three-thirty.”
“I’ve been at it since last night. I was with some British guys but I lost them. That’s the second phone I bought this year. Lost another one over Christmas to some Russian guy up in Žižkov. Another two thousand crowns gone.”
“You can use mine if you want,” I said.
“Thanks but I don’t have the number. It was on the phone.” He sort of philosophized and lamented aloud, a habit I tend to like in other people.
The bartender came back.
“So you’re OK. No sleeping?”
“Tak dobře amigo! I’ll take a pivo if it’s alright.”
After the beer was brought, the man seemed to resign himself to the loss of the phone. He straightened up and took a drink.
“Philadelphia Rhodes,” he said, with a thick booming voice in response to my introduction. “You from the States?”
“California.”
“North or South?”
“North. Eureka. It’s a little town north of San Francisco.”
He nodded.
“I know Eureka. Humboldt County. Oh yes, Humboldt County. I passed through it a few years ago on my way up to Vancouver. Very good weed.”
“World famous,“ I said, grinning. “Where are you from? Philadelphia?”
“Jersey actually. But south Jersey’s pretty much a suburb of Philly and New York. I come from Camden, just over the river.”
“I’m not really doing anything at the moment,” he said, chuckling. “You teach? That’s good. I made a few movies a while back.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, there’s this guy I met at a bar in Andel who likes to have English speakers in his movies. It was good money - five thousand crowns for a day’s work.”
“That’s not bad,”
“Not bad. So anyway, I did that for a while and I made enough to kick back for a couple months.”
“What did you do in the States? Philadelphia Rhodes sounds like a boxer or musician.” “Drums,” he said, rewarding me with a nod and beam.
“No shit?”
“Played pretty much everywhere, New York mostly. Got a place up in Harlem called St. Nicks where there’s good people.”
“Ever play at Yoshi’s?”
“In Oakland? Nah, but I know it. Sushi bar.”
„Have you played with anyone I’d know?“
He seemed for real enough. I was struck immediately by the sense of warmth and power, qualities that seemed to lurk at the back of the phrasing.
“You know the Irridium?“ Philadelphia asked, lighting a Gauloises “And you been up to St. Nicks? How about that? The man says he’s been to St. Nicks.“
He smiled and turned the cigarette in his fingers and looked at it.
“So what brought you here?”
“Got tired of the scene in New York. Here the pace is slower and cheaper. Plus there’s a little more work. In New York there’s a lot of work for horn players. For drummers it’s harder.”
As I said he had a powerful build - a drummer’s big heavy hands and deep chest. As he shifted on the sofa, there was a substance to his movements. It was a build that suggested a familiarity with travel or heated nights in clubs. I could almost see him at that moment, behind his kit, catching the change from a swaying three-four to a surging straight four with a slight nod of the head and dip of the shoulder. I remember once seeing Elvin Jones play and he moved the same. I wondered if they all moved that way, jazz drummers. Maybe just the good ones, I thought, or maybe it’s a harmless pose tracing back to who knows when.
Yes, I thought, there was mystery in those movements and heavy hands, a dip that made you look up and catch the sliver of light radiating off the roughened forehead and chin.
I ordered a round, hoping he’d stick around. He accepted and we drank and smoked a while. A couple of Czech girls came in and sat down on one of the other sofas. They ordered Irish coffees, then sat together looking a little gloomy or bored. One of them was quite pretty, but she just stared at the floor with serious eyes while her friend flipped desultorily through a fashion magazine.
Philadelpia turned and addressed the girls. His Czech was hearty and confident.
The girls smiled shyly and looked at each other quizzically.
“Pfohodě. Cau.” my new acquaintenance said, laughing. Presently he turned back around, tipping the girls a small salute.
“I pick it up by watching TV,” Philadelphia said, to my compliment. “And I had a girlfriend for awhile. It was the same with French. And Japanese, I speak a bit of that too.”
“I can never do that - I mean, just listen and pick it up.”
“You don’t know how to listen maybe,“ Philadelphia said. “Ha. Just fucking with you, man.”
“A lot of musicians do it,” I mused aloud later. “I mean, come to Europe to live. Sidney Bechet, Dexter Gordon. They said they felt more welcome here than at home.”
“Well there’s more work. When I first got here some little kids would walk up and touch my face, they’d never seen a black man before, ‘cept on TV. There’s diversity here but not a whole lot of people of color if you didn’t notice. Guy with one of the business papers called me a few months ago before a gig. ‘How will I know you when we meet?’ he said, over the phone. ‘Easy,’ I said. ‘I’ll be the only black guy standing in the metro.”
He laughed big again.
“No, there’s some - diversity, I mean. You just have to look a little for it. Gypsies, Chinese here and there. And the Slavic folks have different keys. You can see it in the way they look at each other. Czechs tend to be standoffish at first, at least to foreigners. Us foreign folks add something too, except we tend to come and go until after a while they stop looking at us and we all look the same.”
“How do you deal with it?” Vaguely I recalled a hostile face or two in the shops.
“Easy. The trick is to blend. Just step back a bit, wait your turn to add something. Pick your moments.”
Around seven the place began to fill up. The atmosphere became lively and people lined up at the bar, and later I walked with Philadelphia Rhodes across Old Town Square. It was a windy, snowy night. My train arrived first, so we shook hands and bid goodnight.
We spent the next few weeks hanging out. In the twilight, we’d meet Marja and her friends for drinks, at a pub in Žižkov, chatting late in the darkened atmosphere, the city spread out at the bottom of the hill.
Other evenings it would be just me and Philadelphia. We‘d meet early in the evening at a bar and discuss music, politics, women, literature, Prague and America. To my delight we had similar tastes, from Miles Davis to Mayakovsky.
I found out he had a wife - in Tokyo of all places. He visited her two months a year. He also had a 12-year-old son from a previous marriage who lived in Baltimore. I could tell he had tremendous affection for his wife, Tamara, as well as his son, Raymond, who he was teaching to play the drums.
Listening to him, my mind kept going back to that feeling I had when I first met him, that feeling that there was something more behind his decision to stay in Prague. My imagination itched to build a mysterious past behind him, that he was fleeing the law or some illicit love affair. Or I imagined that, feeling rejected or a failure as a musician, he’d sought refuge in Europe and travel.
But the better I got to know him, I rejected these fantasies. I came to the conclusion that, like myself, he was restless and needed the road to reassure him that the world was indeed mysterious. It was the only balm tht could soothe his ever-searching mind.
„Kerouac. Yeah I know him,“ he said one time during our literary discussions. „He had the rhythm, the timing. The story wasn’t as important as the style. Like Bird, it was the velocity, not the content, that stuck with you.“
Philadelphia Rhodes quizzed me on black writers, like Ellison and Hughes, which I shamefully confessed I’d heard of but scarcely read. To my surprise, he also was widely read in Czech literature. He could weave themes in ‚The Metamorphosis‘ and Svejk into The Watts riots and the Michael Jackson trial in unconventional and delightful ways.
„Svejk, he’s the classic nigger: Yessah boss man, nossa boss man,“ Philadelphia said, chuckling. „He knows the easiest way to get by is to just listen to the man, but he knew how to turn it too. He knew it worked both ways. There’s nothing more dangerous than a man who lets you believe he’s as stupid as you think he is.
„Some Czechs I talk to don’t like him,“ he continued. „They sort of see him as an Uncle Tom. Czechs and black folks are similar in that way: their history is of survival in the face of power. And they hate themselves sometimes, hate their history, so they go on with no knowledge of themselves. It’s something white folks, especially in America, the ones who come over here, don’t understand. They say „Czechs are so grumpy, these Czechs are stupid, these Czechs are so lazy,“ and so on, just like they say about us. It’s a layer of protection. The only thing that keeps people together, is to be misunderstood together, or at least to maintain the illusion of being misunderstood.“
This wasn’t a speech Philadelphia was making. He didn’t talk like he was trying to lecture. Instead, I got the impression he was feeling his way through, and merely sharing it. I didn’t mind at all. The more I got to know him, the more I appreciated the easygoing flight of Philadelphia Rhodes. His company, like his voice, was a glass of gin and tonic - clean, but with a bite that warmed you. With him, you didn’t miss home or regret mistakes because they weren’t mistakes at all, just the kicks and booms in an improvised set.
„Do you believe in any kind of hereafter?“ I asked him one evening.
„Absolutely,“ Philadelphia answered.
„What does it look like to you?“
„It’s a homecoming with music, pure music,“ he reflected. „Not harps and shit like that necessarily. Sometimes when I used to be at St. Nicks, playing with these guys Dave Wilson and Earl Johnson, guys from the neighborhood, we’d play til one, two in the morning. Then we might head downtown to the Village. Nights like that, especially when the place was full and it was hot, people dancin‘ and the place just movin‘, I would think, this must be heaven or something close. But that’s just personal. I think it’s what you make it, just like life.“
„It’s like the book East of Eden,“ I enjoined. „Timshel. Thou mayest.“
„We aint got a choice but to choose,“ Philadelphia said. „Living and dying. They really are the same thing when you get down to it. Like I said you got to learn to pick your spots … I remember this cat back in Harlem, Horace Bibbens. Everyone called him Bibs. Man, could that nigger play the piano. I remember one time he took Pathetique and played that over Alabama. It was the anniversary of the church bombing, I remember, sometime about 85. They’re not even in the same key but somehow brother made it fit. Anyway, we were coming out of the slow blues part and back to the head and when he went into the bass trill, Bibs with his right hand starts the Pathetique - you know, ‚bam, bum, bom, bum - shit! I looked over at Earl Johnson, who was wailing on the Coltrane bit and he stopped for a second, then just dropped his tone to a whisper and went with it. I’m up there crashing and booming but then I dropped it down too and for a moment it was just that Pathetique over the bass trill ringing out.“
„Ol‘ Horace never did say why he did it ,“ he continued. „ Or where it came from. The audience - there were only 10, 12 people in the house that night, just the old fellas at the bar and a few tourists and this old sweet girl Margaret was working. They clapped real loud but you could tell they were a little bewildered too. The tourists especially. I remember after I was happy. We all were, a sort of quiet too, thinking about those people who died in the church bombings. It was a moment and they were part of it too and the past was there, the history was in that moment too, all history. Then we just laughed, laughed even though we had tears too.
„It’s something that’s a part of life, my life anyway,“ he said, a little sadly. „The music.“
„Do you ever play anymore?“ I asked.
„Yeah, but I got some pains here,“ he said, rubbing his elbows and shoulders. „There’s some places in town though where they know me and let me play now and then.“
„I’d like to hear you sometime.“
„You bet. I’ll let you know. ‚Fact, I may be doing something next week.“
“Come on down to Zizkov tonight,” Philadelphia texted. “I’ll meet you at the main train station at eight and we’ll head down to a place I know.“
After my last class finished, I dropped my bag off at my flat, then caught the metro to the main train station. Outside I saw Philadelphia, massive as always, waiting for me at the stop.
„It’s just down the way,“ he said, after I greeted him.
We’d invited Marja and the girls too but they were going to come around ten or so.
Philadelphia led me a few blocks to a no-name bar not far from the TV tower. It was one of those dark cellar places, really indistinguishable from the hundreds that blanket Prague. A white-haired Czech guy was behind the bar. He greeted us with a grave nod and „Dobře vicher.“
Philadelphia ordered a round. The bartender scraped the foamy head off with a butter knife, a practice peculiar to Czechs, then served them up. It was good Pilsner, cold and clean.
Up on a tiny stage a quartet was playing. You could tell they’d just started because there was a cold draft in the music, a crampness in the musicians‘ attitude that would take a set to work out. With some groups it’s like that, or just some nights maybe. The cellar was full, a Czech crowd of mostly students but a few middle-aged folks as well.
„These guys take some time,“ Philadelphia said as we sat down. „They’re all good musicians and they know the music, but they’re always a little shy at first. But once they forget about it they’ll surprise you.“
„They do seem stiff,“ I said.
„Yeah, give ‚em time,“ Philadelphia said. „There you hear?“
The musicians had gone into „In Your Own Sweet Way,“ a dandy of a ballad. A stout man with a salt-and-pepper beard played the melody on a muted trumpet. At Philadelphia’s prompting I focused on the rhythm section. The bass and drums were manned by young Czechs, both pony-tailed and studious. At piano sat an older man with beautiful gold-colored skin. His comps, light and mellifluous, matched his complexion.
„That’s Stefan Morris,“ Philadelphia said. „He’s from New York too. Been over here bout five years.“
I listened and I could feel, faintly at first but then stronger, a warmth beginning to emanate from the stage. It’s that warmth you wait for, the warmth that will take you somewhere eventually, take the evening to a place where you feel remote and safe from the world. Outside now the streets are beginning to fade into late-evening colors, but you didn’t need to look outside to know this. People were in restaurants now and talking, drinking pints and eating pan v rohlik or smazeny hermelin. Soon it would be dark and then it would be much later and there would be a stirring of wind in the trees up at riegrove sady. Soon Marja would be sitting beside you and you would smell that faint scent of fruit in her hair when she kissed you, and the coppertone flavor of Suvi’s gay chatter announced the arrival and departure of another discarded, promising young suitor. But all of this you knew, too. It was all in the music, in that warmth that was now beginning to fill the cellar.
„Oooh, look out now!“ Philadelphia whistled. Stefan turned and saw him and they exchanged laughing nods.
I looked at Philadelphia and grinned. I couldn’t help it.
„Thanks, man. It’s nice.“
„It’s just getting going now. Wait a bit longer.”
The band took a break around nine-thirty. Stefan came down and slapped Philadelphia on the shoulder and shook hands.
„Thought I was going to have to organize a search party,“ he said. „Where you been, negro?“
“Thought I’d give our man Jiři some time to practice,“ Philadelphia said. Jiři was the young Czech drummer. He came up presently, greeting Philadelphia with a big, shy smile.
„Cao! We wait for you to come,“ Jiři said. „You must play now.“ Like most young Czechs, he spoke English well, the Slavic tinge only bending the edges a little.
„Now, now,“ Philadelphia said, waving off the compliment. „I need to warm up. I’m a little more worried about damaging Stefan’s changes than anything else. Have a pivo first.“
The next set started at ten. Philadelphia walked around the kit and he looked awkward for a minute, squeezing his powerful frame into the little space. He sat down. With two heavy paws he touched the cymbals, then made a few adjustments, moving the snare an inch or two forward, and the tom-toms as well, to make more room. It all took about two minutes. Then he sat back and seemed comfortable.
While Philadelphia was doing this, Stefan sat at the piano talking amiably with an older Czech couple. The man was pointing toward the keys and Stefan was nodding but I couldn’t hear what they were saying. The bassist, whose name I later learned was Petr, thumped a few anticipatory notes, looking over at the bar in a distracted way. The trumpeter was gone and a woman on violin taken his place. She was in her mid-thirties and wore what almost looked like an Amish dress, plain and with a white bonnet covering her brown hair.
There was that rattle of empty noise that always comes in the minutes leading up to the start of the next set. Then everyone looked at Philadelphia. He seemed not to notice, grinning now and again in the direction of the bar. With a good drummer you never quite see him start; you feel it, the feathery frrrt of the snare and boom! of the bass drum and he’s off. It was only after that you actually see him move, the bob of the shoulder, the hovering threat of the bass drum, the hands lapping the snare and crash-hiss coming from the cymbals.
With Philadelphia’s presence the whole atmosphere of the room changed. It seemed everything was shaded a tone darker, and the warmth was there instantly, emanating in large puffs, climbing up the walls and running along the smooth stone floor.
I was lost in it for a moment, but then my senses adjusted and I recognized the song, „Delilah“ by Clifford Brown. The violinist, Klara, gave the Arabic melody a distinctly rural flavor. Someone told me she was from a small village in South Bohemia. With her the melody became sweet and a little sad. But just when the melody threatened to get too sweet Philadelphia’s bass drum and snare would erupt like thunder and lightening, scattering the melody for a moment. He harrassed Klara, startled her sadness. Then he’d turn and look over at Stefan, whose gold, mellifluous comping was like the rain to Philadelphia’s thunder. The storm broke. Then he fell back into a false calm, the eye of the storm, a benign smile on his face and that sliver of light coming off his forehead.
Petr seemed affected by Philadelphia’s presence most of all. His studiousness shifted to another mood and you could see him let go a little bit. That opened up the music, his thick tones wrapping around Philadelphia’s mighty strokes and crystallizing the chords coming from the piano.
The set continued. A smoking version of „Impressions,“ on which Stefan’s playing took on a percussive tone, and into songs I hadn’t heard before or only faintly recognized. It was better that way sometimes. Free of the familiar melodies, I was able to focus purely on the warmth that kept increasing. You could see it on Philadelphia’s face, which was perspiring freely by now. Even the ever-cool Stefan Morris courteously allowed a trickle of sweat to travel down his brow.
Klara’s playing was beautiful, and Petr surprised me with his adaptability. But really from the start it was all about the play between Philadelphia and Stefan, their lines meeting and continuing past, pulling the evening on into a vanished time, an hourless era measured in pine tar and lemon juice, an age recorded by oleo and firecrackers. It went on like that, and after a while I lost the form and just sat, leaning forward in my chair.
„Ahoj,“
I looked up and it was Marja, looking smart in a red jacket and white scarf. The other girls were there too. They all turned and waved to Philadelphia, who saw and winked. The bartender brought over some extra chairs and they sat down. After that it was all charming glimpses and flashes and shifting crowds and warm lights.
The set ended around twelve. Philadelphia came over and exchanged kisses and hugs with the girls. It was hot in the cellar now so we followed a crowd people up the steps and onto the sidewalk for cigarettes. Outside it was cool and dark. Most of the shops were closed, except for an all-night potraviny and a Gambrinus pub two doors down.
„How’s Sven?“ I teased.
„Oh, he’s out tonight with some other people from Holland,“ Marja said.
„You look really good.“
„Oh, you like the scarf? I found it at a market with Tereza this afternoon. 25 crowns.“
„It’s good to see you. You like the music?“
„Of course. It’s beautiful. I mean, I’d heard jazz before in France. But not like this. He’s really amazing. And the other one, Stefan. He’s really beautiful.“
The break lasted for about a half hour. We joined Philadelphia and Stefan’s circle and listened to them as they talked shop: fellow musicians back in New York, how so-and-so was getting along, this-and-that about the Prague nightlife, the echo of their laughter rattling down the block.
Then Jiři rolled a joint and passed it around. A few of Jiři’s friends walked up then, greeting everyone with cries of „Nazdar!,“ the old Czech patriot way.
Someone began singing a Czech song and the others joined in. Their voices got louder and then when it was over everyone laughed and clinked glasses.
Around midnight everyone went back in and the next set began. I noticed Jiři, looking much more comfortable than he had earlier, perhaps thanks to the marijuana, was back on drums. Philadelphia was sitting with the girls at the bar.
„He wanted to play so I let him play,“ he said.
A false spring set in the first week of February. The snow melted and the sun came out, spreading the frozen city with benevolent light. It felt much better to be out walking around.
So when the weekend came around, I headed down to the cafe. It was noisy and smoky inside.
“Going pretty good tonight,” I shouted to the bartender Milan , by way of greeting.
“Yes, busy,” he said.
As always, Herb was planted comfortably in a booth, this time with two tawny-colored Brazilian girls in party dresses hanging from each elbow. The girls were talking energetically to each other, and when they nodded to each other and showed their perfect teeth.
Herb saw me and waved. I could see him asking the girls if they’d mind if I joined.
“Hello!” they said, flashing bright smiles.
After the atrocious Sunday meltdown at the Aj Movka, I’d buckled down and finished the story about the Russian and American painter and filed it that morning. Nothing special - but still, it was at least an enterprise story. At least I hadn’t forgotten how to get a story on my own.
I was anxious to share the news, but held off until the girls left in search of Prague ’s underground disco world.
Herb nodded congratulations, lighting a cigar.
“Might consider rewording it a bit, then send it to the Out & About editor at the Post. What else you got going?”
“Not much. My Czech’s improving a bit. Got drunk and made an ass out of myself at a pub in the village.”
“It happens. Just take a break from it.”
“I am.”
“It’ll do it to you if you don’t watch it.Try soda now and again. Beer, beer, soda. Not just beer, beer, beer.”
Something was wrong with the stereo, the music kept coming in and out. The bartender couldn’t fix it, so finally with a sigh Herb hauled himself out of the seat to take care of it. A few minutes later the static cleared and Frank Sinatra’s voice bounced around the bar. Herb disappeared for a while to the kitchen. I ordered a soda, then sat for a while thinking absently and smoking cigarettes.
At the next table sat a handful of young Americans. I couldn’t tell if they were on holiday or if they were living in Prague . Sometimes you can tell by the small talk. They talked of general things, each phrase garnished generously with “Like,” as in, “So I was, like, waiting for John to call and, like, I’m really tired and, so like ...” and so on. I’m guilty of it myself, except I tend to overuse the phrase, “Y’ know?”
Herb came back and settled in, Milan immediately came over.
“Ready for your wine, Herb?”
“Sure. But not that dry stuff from last night. Give me the Spanish red.”
“OK.”
The incident on Sunday at the Aj Movka was kicking around in my gut.
“What do you think ...?” I started.
“What’s that?” Herb looked at me.
“About Prague .” I settled for vaguaries.
The bartender brought the wine, then asked if I wanted anything. I shook my head.
“What about Prague ?” Herb asked, after he took a sip.
I wrestled with telling about the Aj Movka, but settled for vagaries. You can only go to the well so often, after all.
“You strike me as the kind of guy who needs to keep his options open,” Herb said.
When I left Herb’s it was about ten. A baby was crying, or wailing, somewhere in one of the lighted windows high above the street.
I walked several blocks, across Wenceslas Square . Maybe I should get some dinner. Not hungry. Pass a salon. It was actually open, but empty except for a pretty girl sitting in one of the chairs. I went in.
“Haircut?” she asks.
“Yes, please.”
She was from from Ukraine , she said. Dyed blonde hair, heavy make-up. Been in Prague for five years.
And you are from England ? No, America . California . California ? I thought you were English. No, not English. It’s cold out, yes? Yes, terrible. Like Russia ? Jeko vrusku? She laughs, ano, jeko vrusku.
So you have some Czech girlfriend? No, no. They are quite beautiful, yes? Oh, yes, very beautiful. Think of Misa for a moment. The Ukraine girl is friendly, but too much make-up. What’s her name? Snezhana? No. Světlána. ... Feel tired. Heavy.
The haircut feels good, close and fresh. Feel lighter now. But still tired.
She hands you a card. I’ll write my email, she says. Call me, she says.
Thanks, cau.
Outside the wind has picked up. It sends a chill across the back of the freshly shorn neck. It’s dark and the street lights are gauzy, the trams lurch by, full of shoppers and young people pumped up for an evening at the theater or the discos ...
... And then I’m in a pub. The interior resembles catacombs, with long, low corridors made of old stone. Descending down a curving staircase. The Czechs of old must have been really short, I think. Nearly bash my head on the ceiling half a dozen times going down the stairs. But the tight space and gloom have a thrilling intimacy. Back in Communist days bugging was ubiquitous. They say even now they still haven’t found them all. Maybe a tap is still there behind the walls, still going, recording words and scenes that no one cares to listen to anymore. Or maybe they never stop listening, only they call it voyeurism now instead of surveillance. Big Brother is now entertainment, a reality TV show.
…Further down the staircase into the labrythine belly of the city. How old are these cellars? Passing a barmaid. She’s well-shaped, her navel pierced and tattooed, and she’s busy doing her make-up, she doesn’t look up. Further down. Kafka’s ghost, a sea of faces with hideous grins, a nude woman, her belly mishapen and waxen, images that flicker in the dark . Keep descending.
A fear slices through my gut. a.m. fear. That’s a term. Maybe when it’s when you’re afraid to go further, at least in that direction. No, it’s not fear this feeling. Remorse, guilt, waste. I check my mobile phone for messages. It would be nice to have one. But there’s no reception down here. The fear sharpens, the emptiness. I don’t like this nether world of images and shadows. Time to turn back, back up to where the streets are noisy, wet and cold. Back to where the babies are screaming and the voice is singing of flowers. Up the stairs again - watch your head.
It’s not far now. With a last lunge up I’m back. The bartender is watching “Romancing the Stone,” and I recognize the scene where the crocodile bites off the hand of the nasty Columbian policeman. Michael Douglas wrestling the crocodile for the stone. Way to go, Mike …
It’s already past midnight. Probably missed the last bus to the village. Could take a taxi. The thought of going home suddenly made me very tired. Then I remembered I was supposed to meet Mika in the morning. Was it 10? I checked his text message. No, noon. I checked the time. Only 12 hours to kill. Might as well head over to La Clan …
La Clan is the kind of club that doesn’t even get going until six in the morning. When I arrived it was just past midnight, so the place was nearly deserted.
Kyle and Duncan were there though, sitting in the back lounge with a couple of Russians.
“How’s the village?” Kyle asked.
“Don’t ask.”
“What did you do, get drunk?” It was typical of Kyle to be right on the nose.
He looked at me.
“You drink too fast that’s why you get so fucked up.” Before coming to Prague , Kyle had worked in a pub in Donegal. “We got some MDMA if you want.”
“Sure.” It was going to be a long night, might as well make it interesting.
The three of us retired to the bathroom. La Clan is very accommodating to substance abusers. They even have mirrors installed over the toilets.
Kyle laid out the lines, then took one, followed by Duncan, then me.
“It’s not easy,” he said, grinning.
“It’s not.”
“Everybody dies but not everybody lives.”
The next few hours disappeared in a visceral blur. Duncan went off with a couple of Czech girls. Kyle and I sat talking with the Russians.
“Did I tell you I had to go home last week?” Kyle asked. It was near six and we’d come around a little. The club was full now.
“Why’s that?”
“The unemployment office wanted me to come in for a routine check up. I told them I was looking for work in the IT industry, but was having a slow go of it seeing as there’s not much IT in Northern Ireland . Anyway, the clerk said she couldn’t find my file and was about to cut me off. So I turns to her and says, real angry, ‘I’ll not be denied my benefit because of your incompetence. Then she looked around some more and found it.”
“So your OK?”
“I’ll have the benefit for a few more months at least, maybe longer.”
“Lucky bastard.”
“Why do we come here?” It was Duncan . He’d come up unexpectedly from the bar. He repeated the question.
“I mean, I never meet anybody here, never have a good time.”
We looked at each other.
“Should we head to Studio?” Kyle asked.
“Definitely,” Duncan said. They looked at me.
“Sure, Studio,” I said.
They were right. It was always a lot more fun at Studio. It doesn’t even open until six in the morning, and closes at five in the afternoon. We knew a couple guys who’d actually stayed the whole time.
“One of these days we’ll have to go home, go to bed early,” Kyle said. “Then get up early and go to Studio.”
“Breakfast at Studio,” I said.
Saturday morning I actually didn’t feel too bad. I’d left Studio about nine, then went over to a coffee shop for breakfast.
“New haircut?” Mika asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “New look.”
“No, it’s perfect.”
“Let’s see if Herb’s is open,” I said. “I think you’ll like it.”
We waited to cross at the Tesco while the tram came up from the National Theater, then when it rolled past went on through the network of narrow back streets.
“So how is the wife?” I asked.
“Fine, fine, thank you.”
“It must be coming any day now.”
“Yes, any day.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Yes, very crazy.”
Mika lowered his gaze as he said it and shook his head.
“I think you’ll like this place,” I said. “Lots of English-speaking people go there. It will be good practice.”
We walked quickly to get out of the cold. Up the street we noticed a couple college guys, Brits judging by their accents. They were wearing plastic gold helmets, Roman gladiator helmets and long red tunics. Suddenly a dozen more, similarly attired, materialized from a basement pub - they all appeared reasonably sober, this incongruous legion. I was tempted to cry “Hail, Caesar!” as we passed.
“How’s work?” I asked Mika instead.
“Busy. Always busy.”
We arrived at Herb’s. It was deserted.
“Not open yet.” I looked in at the darkened interior. “I know another place up the street.”
The Globe was open and humming with activity. People sat drinking espresso, thumbing through copies of The Guardian or Herald Tribune, or else checked email.
“You know this place?” I asked.
“No, I don’t know it,” Mika said. “But it looks fine.”
We sat down.
“Coffee?”I asked. “ Or should we have one.”
“Coffee.” Mika smiled ruefully. “Sorry. I must meet my wife in one hour.”
“No, no. It’s OK.”
The same smile again.
“Sorry.”
“No, no.”
His smile widened for a minute, then reached a crescendo, before a bit of greyness colored the edges.
“It’s over,” he said.
I didn’t say anything.
“It’s over,” he repeated. “For a while, until the baby comes.”
The waiter came over and we ordered coffee, two black.
“Yes, of course,” I said.“So you must call when it comes.”
“Yes, yes. Oh - before I forget. Here.”
He handed me three crisp, folded 100 crown notes.
“Thanks. But I still owe you the 600.”
“Don’t worry. In a few months, we have the lessons again. Go out get some beer.”
“No, no. I’m not worried. So how do you feel?” I put the money in my pocket and shifted in the chair.
“Oh, shit!” he whispered.
“Oh, shit?”
“-oh, shit! Oh shit! Oh shit!”
A while later the waiter came by and refilled our coffees.
“Mmm ... Perfect,” Mika said, kissing his fingers. “Yes, regular black coffee. Perfect.”
“Yes. Still teaching karate?”
“Yes, yes. Three nights a week.”
“Any more international tournaments coming up?”
“No, no,” he laughed. “That’s over for a while too. Oh - do you notice?”
Mika spread his hands out and shrugged.
“No smoking.”
“You quit?” I was puffing on my third.
“The patch.” He pulled up a sleeve and showed me. “I bought the strongest prescription.”
“Does it work?”
“Oh, perfect.” He smiled.
“At least until after the baby,” he added.
We talked a while longer, drifting into light political issues. Usually the beer loosened our tongues, worked the topics into a froth. It was too early to talk about politics. It was too early to talk about anything really.
“More coffee?” the waiter asked.
“Ne, zaplatim.” Mika fished a couple bills out of this wallet and handed them to the waiter.
Outside the streets were still quiet. The would-be gladiators had disappeared, presumably to their hotel to rest up before another night of rape and pillage.
Herb’s was open when we passed. I looked in the window. It was empty except for the West African cook, Martin. I waved.
“Wanna go in for a bit?”
“No, no.” Mika shook his head. “I’m meeting my wife at Tesco now.”
“That’s right. So - good luck.”
“Yes, thank you. You too. I will call you.”
“Yes, when she has the baby.”
“Ok, see you.
“See you.”
Herb was already there, seated in one of the booths, reading a copy of the International Herald Tribune.
“Oh, hey,” Herb looked up. “Nice haircut.”
“Thanks. Crazy night?”
“Crazy. Hey Milan , what time did you get out of here?”
“Eight.”
“Eight?”
“Sounds like I missed a good party,” I said.
“Hey Milan , bring me a burrito, will ya? And bring me some coffee. And where’s the music?”
Presently the music came on. Frank Sinatra belted out “Come Fly With Me.”
“How’s your wife?” I asked.
“Vera? She’s fine. Talked to her last night. Hey, Milan where’s my burrito? Christ, we got one person in the place.”
“One minute.”
The burrito arrived, stretching the length of the plate, with a salad garnish. I was hungry and it looked good.
“Oh, we got the best burrito in town, don’t we Milan ,” Herb said. “We finally got it right. Ours is better than Jama’s now.”
“You want cola?” Milan asked.
“Voda.” Water.
“Voda. OK.”
When Milan brought out the water I paid.
“Stop back by tonight,” Herb said, between bites. “The women in here last night - off the fuckin’ charts. Hey, Milan . The women last night? That’s right, the girls. American, Czech -
”-German, Russian, ... ” Milan added.
Actually I wanted to come back by, but didn’t. The fatigue had set in. I was dead on my feet. Plus, it was a hassle to come into town from the village on the weekends, during the winter anyway. I went back to the village and slept.
Hana and the Little Prince
It took me a long time before I noticed the witches at Hana's. On the walls in the kitchen, and in the foyer, they hung, on broomsticks and in freefall, black-cloaked, with warted noses, sometimes gloating in malevolence, other times in earthy, buxom simplicity.
I think that morning I asked about them. Hana was tired too. I could see it in her face when she answered the door. She hadn’t put on any make-up. With a sigh she blew her bangs out of her eyes.
“Here, this is for you,” I said, handing her a plastic bag.
“What is it? Oh!” She exclaimed, pulling a big chocolate bar out of the bag.
“I saw them at the metro station.”
“Thank you.” She gave me a kiss on the cheek. It felt good to make her happy.
'What's with the witches?'
Hana looked around, realized.
'Oh, I just like them.'
“So how was your weekend?” She put the chocolate on the mantelplace.
“Too many beers.”
“Too many?” She laughed. “Sometimes I wish I could have many beers. You want some coffee?”
“Thanks, no.”
It was shaping up to be a good morning, even for a Monday. Getting the chocolate had been a good thought. It lifted Hana out of her tiredness and made me feel good too.
“Did you and Honza go out?” Honza was her boyfriend. He worked for a floral distributor.
“We worked on the bathroom on Saturday. Then we took his children out on Sunday.”
“That sounds good - where?”
“Just to the park. It was sunny then.”
We slipped into the lesson. Homework. Hana opened her black notebook, filled with her loopy, neat cursive. The assignment had been to write a fairy tale. It was a good way to practice past tense verbs.
I had her read it.
“OK,” she said shyly. “So - Once upon a time there was a young man who was very angry. He did not like his parents. One day they had a terrible fight and the young man left home. He moved far away. He led a fast life and enjoyed his freedom. Then one day he received a letter that his parents had died. And soon after this he lost his job and the bank took his home. He became very sad.
“Fortunately he got help from some charities who gave him money and food until he could find new work. The man thought about his life and how he had lived. He realized he had never thought about what was important to him. So he lived with a new point of view. He made friends and worked hard. It was a slower life, but also a richer life.”
She finished and looked up.
“Very nice,” I said.
“Thank you.”
“No really - it’s very good.”
IN THE NEXT INSTALLMENT: Apologies to Karel; the false spring and preparations for the World Cup; Marja leaves 'Anything is Possible'; The girl in the green dress