Via Prague

In the back room at the Zaba, hanging on the wall, was an old clock. The clock hadn’t worked for a long time, and so the time was always fixed at 1204. The hands were frozen at this time, now and forevermore, or at least until Jirka got around to fixing it. There also used to be a sign, a kind of banner in Czech. I asked what it meant one day and no one knew, until one guy told me it was an old sign for the People’s Socialist Party of Czechoslovakia, a relic of Communist times. A few days later I noticed the banner had been taken down and thrown out.
Up at the bar hang license plates collected who knows where. Behind the bar are multitudes of frogs, rubber and plastic, a cute nod to the pub’s name.
In Czech you say, “pohoda,” or “pohodicka,” to mean everything is OK, or cool, or comfortable. The Zaba certainly was pohoda. After one visit people knew you. If you’re a foreigner they may be defensive, or at least very curious, the first couple times, but if you introduce yourself, make an effort to speak Czech and be sociable, pay your tab and don’t make trouble, then eventually you graduate to the level of regular. Then they could make jokes about you openly, but include you in the joke, and generally relax, and you could joke back, if your Czech was good enough.
Once you were a regular you were able to go up to the computer and put a song on YouTube and join a table of regulars, who would move over to let you in at the booth or table. You’d be invited to a game of table football, and perhaps you could bring in a movie on Sunday night. If you were short of cash it was OK to pay next time, no one bothered you about it. These priviledges could be revoked if you made trouble or neglected to pay once too often. The cardinal sins were stealing or bumming or fighting. Once a Czech guy from the neighborhood, who’d already developed a reputation as a leech, stole one of the barmen’s mobile phones sitting on the bar. A small posse tracked him down to a bar up the street. The guy denied stealing the phone and even tried to blame it me (since I’d been sitting next to him). They didn’t believe him and shook him down until he finally coughed up the phone. After that the thief, feeling a need to save face perhaps, went back to the Zaba and tried to start a fight with the barman he had stolen from. The fight was broken up, but not before the thief had broken his hand trying to punch the barman.
Everyone told me about it the next day. “We said,” Kuba told me, “that James maybe is a little crazy sometimes, but we know he is not a thief.” That made me feel good, especially hearing the story from Kuba, who as I said I once in a drunken fit called ‘The Son of Stalin.’ That wasn’t the only time I’d drunk too much and made trouble, but it felt good knowing that they saw in me some glimmer of decency.

July was humid, tropical, stifling. The days were long and hot, and the air heavy and thick. In the evenings the baked air changed and then the rains came fast and hard until the gutters splurged and rainwater leaped and gurgled down the streets. The pigeons (holub) all gathered underneath the roofs of the buildings and we could hear them warbling, huddled thickly together. Sometimes we stepped outside the Zaba and stood at the entrance watching the rain and the people running to catch the trams or to get home. A slender blonde girl from the pizzeria passed back and forth, regardless of weather, as she made deliveries to the hotel up the hill. Sometimes we called out to her, and she looked over at us from across the street and smiled and kept going. If she was in a hurry she took no notice at all.

I actually taught at two schools. The fırst one, located near the main train station, was my bread and butter while the second, not far from Namesti Republiky, I just had one class, a little extra pocket Money. One Friday morning I stopped by the school near Namesti Republiky. Actually it was the first school I had found work in Prague, but the first spring I was much more preoccupied with Prague and going out than with teaching, and as a result of negative feedback from students, had not found much work there since. But continued on with one company where for some reason the students liked me, and over time reconciled with the school’s management. That was why I was at the second school that morning. I had stopped by to collect a meager month’s pay and the director told me there was a Japanese student who wanted lessons, and so I said I’d take it.
The director looked at me carefully, not unkindly, measuring what she was going to say.
“James, you know what I’m going to tell you -- ?
“I know,” I said. “Do a good job.”
“Right. Because we don’t need to lose students and neither do you.”
To be honest, I don’t know why I took the student, my situation being so precarious. Perhaps because it felt good to be offered a course there, after that bad first spring five years ago. The director and I at that time had been hostile toward each other, but over time had forged an understanding. I tried to teach well at the one company where I still had classes and tried not to create any problems.
I guess you could also say I took the class as a way to cover my bases. If and when that day of reckoning came with the visa and I had to leave my main school, I could still teach at the second school since they paid under the table.

Later that afternoon I went to the café on Veltrzni Street. The café wasn’t crowded. Three French girls, all with mid-summer tans and wearing shorts and sandals, came in and ordered hamburgers. Nearby a table of American students studied a map of Prague and at the bar a Czech man sat alone reading a newspaper. The manager brought him a steaming pasta plate topped with pork.
The Americans had a laptop on the table and were discussing a story online.
‘In Germany they’re banning ‘The Simpsons,” one girl said.
“Why?” a man asked.
“It’s racist,” the girl said, reading.
“Racist? How”
“I don’t know, I just read the headline and kept browsing.”
Outside there was a loud rumble as a couple of Harley Davidsons went by. There were festivals that weekend and I remembered it was a three-day weekend, with Jan Hus Day. In Karlovo Vary there was the film festival, and Rock For People was going on in Hradec Kralove. Antonio Banderas and John Malkovich were scheduled to be at the film festival, along with Isabelle Huppert. My students called Karlovy Vary a Russian town, since the Russians have bought so many properties there. I thought about going to the film festival, but knew I wouldn’t go. There was a bus from Florenc metro station and the ride was only 150 kilometers. But I wouldn’t go. Most likely there wouldn’t be any one on the buses checking passports, but I didn’t want to chance it. Besides, the forecasts were calling for more rain anyway.

After leaving the Bagel there was still a half hour until my next class. I strolled toward the fairground at Holesovice and over to Stramovka Park. It was humid, the ground soft and the air thick with flies and mosquitos. People were out walking their dogs but not many; the park was quiet. Under the thick canopy of trees it felt cool, so I sat on a bench and watched the people pass now and again with their dogs. The number 5 tram reached its end station and swung around on the tracks to start back again. It was quiet and cool in the park. I didn’t want to go to my afternoon classes. The thought of sitting in those offices and stifling rooms seemed intolerable. In the park my problems were far away. There was a nice rich odor of damp earth and fresh grass and the birds chirped in the trees; a breeze lifted and swayed the branches in smooth ripples. It was like that night at the vineyard in Grabovka. I wouldn have liked to stroll along the path all the way through the park. I did it once a couple of summers before, walked all the way to Dejvice, and once on a late night with Pavel, a guy who taught at the Art Academy, and a few of his students, rich American girls whose parents had paid to have them come to Prague and paint masterpieces. I saw a few of the exhibits; one of the girls, who was studying new media, gave a live sex show on a home video camera. That particular night after walking through the park we all ended up at a pub near Latensky Namesti. It was late and everyone was drunk. One of the girls asked what I thought of her work and I said it was shit. Shocked, offended, the girl turned to Pavel for defense. Instead, Pavel agreed with me! “It is shit,” he said. He wouldn’t have said that if he was sober. The poor girl, I forget if she left or not. But after that Pavel and I always had a big laugh about it. “You are crazy, James!” he said. “A midnight cowboy!”
But the walk during the day it was pleasant, the path winding under trees up toward Dejvice. There was a nice old Czech pub along the way, with smooth wood floors and tables and frosty mugs of cold Pilsner and a decent plate of pork and cabbage. I thought about going there for the weekend; but I knew I wouldn’t.

I didn’t go much of anywhere. It was a strange weekend, full of feelings of farewell, of departure in the humid air. An Australian friend, who owns a bar in the neighborhood, had a brother who after a few months in Prague was going home. I spent much of the weekend there, but it was dull. The Australian, a cizinec, was not well-liked in the neighborhood, and most of the people were loyal to the Zaba or Konspirace, so it was not much of a going away party.
Nikash’s visa was ending. His brother Sugit said he could try one more time, but then he’d have to leave, perhaps to join Islam in Italy. Nikash was not happy. He continued to blame the country’s prime minister (“A Communist! He does not like foreign people, he want us go out!”) for his visa troubles. But in other ways he was happy. Things were going well with Jajuna (“Honey”) and she was over often cooking delicious Thai dishes and while Sugit was at work they spent a lot of time in the bedroom. In those times I usually left and went for a walk or up to the Zaba. When I came back Nikash was beaming and child-like, and he would thank me again for telling him not to kill himself. He talked a lot about his girlfriend, and was happy they were both Buddhists. That weekend marked the beginning of Ramadan, the Muslim fasting period, and even though she was not Muslim, Jajuna planned not to eat meat, but told Nikash he didn’t have to do it if he didn’t want to.
On Jan Hus Day we all had a free day from work. Sugit cooked chicken curry with rice. Jajuna just ate the rice. It was very comfortable in the little basement flat; Indian music played from Sugit’s laptop while we ate. Sugit told me he talked with Islam the day before. He was working in his brother’s shop in Venice but was worried. “There are police controls everywhere,” Sugit said. “He worried about getting a visa. He say he try to call you.”

I ran into Aiden Greenworth. He had a hair cut! With the cut he looked fresh, neat, improved. He was aware of it and had a sort of healthy conceit. Still, he had no work, and had tabs everywhere. While I was at the Australian bar he came in and paid off an old tab, then sat and joined the meager good-bye party for the brother. There was a new barmaid, a pretty young Czech girl, and right away she and Aiden were hostile, or rather, she was and Aiden was defensive. They argued, and the Australian owner intervened and said he’d wait on Aiden.
“What is he doing here anyway?” the barmaid asked me. “I mean, you know he’s a pervatine addict, don’t you?”
I didn’t know that. But knowing the kind of guy Aiden was, such news wouldn’t be totally astonishing. I knew from time to time, late at the pubs in Zizkov or wherever, he wasn’t above doing a little something and there. He had tough times, often sleeping in the park looking out for the police, that it wasn’t unfathomable that he would look for stimulants to keep the party going. But anyway, later I asked Aiden about it himself.
“Who told you that?” he immediately asked. He didn’t seem angry, just really interested in knowing who had told me that. “Who? Who?”
He never answered the question about whether he was or not, not that I really wanted or needed to know. It was his business.
A mutual friend dismissed the theory.
“That’s just Aiden’s personality. He jumps around a lot, he’s nervous and wired all the time.”
Aiden dogged me about it every time I saw him after that. “Who told you that? Man! I know who it was, man!” He’d feed me names, and check my expression. He was convinced it was this person, then that person, and bore a grudge against me for awhile even though I told him I didn’t care one way or the other. But I understood where he was coming from. He already had a hard enough time of it, not having work, owing money everywhere, drinking, his ex, and everyone thinking he was crazy. Pervatine addict? He didn’t want to go any lower in people’s esteem than he felt he already was.

Nikash reported to the camp again. I didn’t know if this time I would see him again. He left very early in the morning, I got up for a brief goodbye before getting ready for work.

The static begins to get thicker now … mid-summer giving way to late summer. There were lessons with the Japanese student, who worked on the outskirts of the city. He wanted me to give lessons to his Korean wife. They spoke English to communicate. The wife was an opera singer in Dresden and was in Prague on holiday. We met for a couple of weeks; the wife was very cheerful and eager to learn, conscientious and our lessons went well. The husband not so well; I found the ride out to his company long and the company, located in a large warehouse, depressing. I started sending him text messages each week saying I was busy. I knew I had promised to do good work but I just didn’t care …

Good news, by way of Tomas. The Czech government announced beginning in September complete amnesty to all persons living illegally in the country and who wanted to leave. That meant I could go back to America, or take a job I had been offered in İstanbul, without worrying about hassle at the border over my expired visa. I suggested Nikash and Sugit come with me, but they declined. Sugit said İstanbul was a very dangerous city.

Danny Boy was going downhill. Every time I saw him he was beyond drunk. He was emotional and headstrong by nature, and when he was drunk all his problems and drama boiled to the surface. He shouted, sang at the top of his lungs, had to be restrained from violence, and after he would collapse into a chair and fall into a deep sleep, his chin lying on his chest. Vick was becoming fed up.
“I can’t afford to sponsor him,” Vick told me one night. “I gave him two pairs of pants and said, ‘pay me later,’ and he goes and spends what money he has on alcohol. You’d think he’d pay me something –“
Vick was working for his Czech relatives, something to do with car engines and also he started doing part time at the Aussie bar whenever they had live acts.

As for me, I began to see a new road emerging from a deep mist. I wasn’t sure yet where it was headed: perhaps İstanbul, or home, or even Italy with Islam. But at the moment that wasn’t so important; the mists hadn’t completely gone yet. I had to wait and keep my eyes open; as dreams are still whole and fragile upon awakening, crystalline yet elusive, they dissolve and vanish if you wake too quickly. I had to wait until the picture resolved, the static cleared, before I would know which way I had to go.

Friday. In the afternoon a light rain fell on the city. I walked up Revolucni Street past the Opera House and down Na Prikope, the busy shopping street. A lot of people sat under umbrellas in front of McDonald’s. The clothes shops were not busy. At Wenceslas Square I saw tables on the pavement outside the cafes were empty. A waiter went from table to table straightening tablecloths and cutlery moved by the wind. A nun stood outside the police station taking up a collection. It was a big difference from summers past in Prague, when the square would be packed with tourists streaming from Old Town.
I was not productive that day. My early class had cancelled, my second student was tied up in meetings, and a third busy as well. I skipped the fourth, it being Friday and all. I went to the school and browsed the Internet. On Facebook a friend from Ireland had invited me to be friends. Another friend, from university days, and who was now working in Alaska, wrote asking how the hell did I end up in Prague? We worked on the student newspaper together, me an editor and he a cartoonist. It felt strange looking back; ten years gone. Perhaps in ten years my time in Prague would seem just as strange and vanished.

I was leaving the city, headed somewhere, and knew that the time was coming soon. I tried not to think about it, and talked about it incessantly. The departure gave the days and nights a feeling of fading glory, a hint of sadness and anxiety, but above all a rich excitement that comes with all departures. At the Zaba everyone treated me well, and I made a point to look out for myself and not cause trouble before I left. Looking back, I suppose the truth was I was afraid; not of leaving, but beginning all over again somewhere else. At a certain point in life you wonder how many more beginnings you have, and how many endings, and will this be the one you’ve been waiting for? I’d felt that way about Prague, that it was what I’d been looking for, a destination; I’d felt that way for a long while. To a degree, I still felt it. Would the next step – Istanbul, or America, wherever, be the true destination, or another sidestreet, a false ending, like those ducks swimming by against the current at the conclusion of “Beyond the AM Crowd?” Would the crisis that hero faced continue to be unresolved, left to the vague dimensions of the “peripheral world?” Waste motion?
But we cannot always choose our journeys, or destinations, I tried telling myself. You chose Prague, and now feel you must choose again. But what if sometimes the journey, the destination, chooses you? Otherwise the clock will always stand still – 12:04 – and that cannot be. Only at Zaba.

Actually I was wrong about that. A few nights later the Zaba was closed. It was closed all weekend, and then on Sunday night it reopened and it turned out they’d spent all weekend doing renovations. The walls were repainted, and now featured a series of frogs and a new room was being added in back. But I also noticed that the old clock in back, the one that perpetually read “12:04” had been taken down and thrown out.