‘9:45?’, she texts.
‘Hi…
‘10:15 cool with you?
‘I need some breakfast first’, he responds.
The boy in 117 was ethereally suspended between confusion and clarity. All these ideas about how he ought to act, what he ought to do and what he’s owed. The girl in 122 was maybe more sure of herself. She knew what she didn’t want. In the end, they both got what they were looking for.
Kinda.
The building orifices let in sunlight; almost too bright. The brightness amps up with each step in the hallway creeping up to the kitchen. The kitchen is a tangerine cage, the light reflecting off the fading rusky floor; atomic excitement bouncing off the metal counters, the radiator, the stove and the microwave. On to the floor, up to the ceiling; in and out the window.
The Tangerine Kitchen: the counter is cluttered with indulgent ingredients; the stove is on, and the pan cradles fast-dissolving butter. The boy’s head, overlooking the pan, is spinning. In ways good and bad.
122, as it happened, is right next door to the kitchen. The door snaps open and shut. A dark-haired apparition, slender and all smile appears.
‘Heyy, come to make breakfast too?’, the boy returns to real life.
A non sequitur question; cup and tea bag hanging from the lanky fingers. She crosses him by, toward the window billboarding the summer outside. The electric kettle finds employment. She plants herself on the sleeping radiator by the wall. Gaze directed at the cook; eyebrows raised, silently enquiring - what you got cooking, boy?
‘Oh… check this out… Ahoj hezky holka…um..Pochazim…uhh..nebez…’
‘It’s Pochazim Ze…’, she giggles.
‘Right…’, his attention now solely on his audience; the bread frying on the buttered pan forgotten.
‘Ahoj holka! Pochazim Z nebezpechneho misto, jsou tak tigre, a medvedy…a..a..hadi’
Anfisa walks in, eyes wide in wonder about the broken Slavic being spoken so theatrically.
‘You get what I’m saying, right? You get what I mean!’, the boy grins and greets the newcomer.
‘I was wondering what was going on…’, Anfisa half laughs, making her way over to the girl leaning against the window, ‘…keep practising’.
‘I’m teaching him’, says the girl against the wall, preparing the beverage in her hands, beaming eyes following Anfisa back to herself. The battered microwave is put to work. Arm’s distance from each other, the mademoiselles get to chatting.
The boy’s attention returns to the stove. Only nominally; for as mechanical movements substitute the toasted bread for bacon on the pan, his thoughts race once more. He liked being with her in other people’s company. They didn’t get too many chances.
The terrace yesterday: his back and forth with Enrico coming out of the accommodation office, interrupting his language lesson with her. Or the time when the marching band of footballers “what’s up-ed” him. Their first walk together. Leo broke file to give him a fist bump. Made him look cool, he thought. Certainly, didn’t make him look bad.
The girls speak in their shared tongue, unintelligible to the boy. Terrace lessons notwithstanding. But weren’t those excited squeals, stares, and smiles leaking from their conversation toward the stove?
‘Okay… enjoy your day guys’, Anfisa, all cheerful, exits the scene.
‘Thanks’, croaks the boy.
Their focus channel back to each other. Conversations all over the place. Imagination all over the place. A vague promise of excitement gathers pace. It’s a nice day to be out. It’ll be nice to go around. Feeding off the ambience, and fiending for more.
‘Okay, I’ll see you at 10:15 then?’
‘Yes!’, he smiles, battling the acute depression of having eggshell fragments in the pan, and a punctured yolk draining itself on the pan.
Cooking invariably takes double the time when she’s around. She knows it.
It’s later than their designated time, but they don’t mind. People loitering and languishing all around. The landscape is stuffed with dogwalkers, skateboarders, and children rolling on the sidewalk as parents patiently wait for the mania to end. The path to the metro station cuts through it.
She scrutinizes her companion. Long-haired and lithe; hazy eyes flashing latent neuroticism. He’s fundamentally good-natured, as far as the light meets the eyes. But certain technicalities of behaviour – the word idiosyncratic would be charitable. Their chattering continues along the steps to the metro station; she gets the distinct feeling his head is running calculations. The momentary glazing of his pupils. Half here, half somewhere else.
As with most passengers, the metro is a matter of reaching the destination. The tram would’ve had a different ambience; the tram would’ve been more chill. This, on the other hand, was to the point. The point of their deboarding - still at a distance. They don’t talk much.
20 minutes in the future: they are in the heart of the city. The heavily cobblestoned part of the city. Metro lines form arteries in the underground; tramlines ambling on the surface alongside cars and pedestrians. It is the grand junction of the metropole.
They traverse the thoroughfare joining the Old Town with Václavské Náměstí, polka dotted by sun and shade. The place is a sieve, catching the footfalls of tourists, “expats”, immigrants and even natives. It’s the city centre, after all.
The tram stop in an interior lane: the lone Gothic tower stood a few metres from the Church, on the other side of the street; walls faded to black, and as old buildings do - it gave the impression that Vlad the Impaler frequented the spot. It also gave the impression that the road reached a cul-de-sac at its feet. In actuality, the road just forked to meander around it.
‘I come to this church sometimes’, she turns to point to the building behind them.
‘All the way here? Wow, that’s some dedication, huh?’
‘No no…only sometimes. I came here for Easter. And the day before, what do you call it in English…eh…’
‘Good Friday?’
‘Yes!’
‘Only for special occasions then…’, says the boy, ‘Is that tower also part of this Church?’
“I don’t know. Maybe it was before. I think it’s its own thing now.”
‘Have you ever been?’, his eyes swerve back to hers.
‘No. You wanna go?’, her eyes swerve. To the tower and back.
‘On the way back?’
‘Okay, we’ll see…’, she says, already seeing the Delphic vision.
Negative.
A brief interlude in their exchanges allows them to breathe. Faint static trickles in to fill in the blanks. She observes him looking past her to the lane shaded by the buildings, decorated with pedestrians, and stitched by the tramline. Waiting for a train of thought, no doubt.
‘Do you go to pray much, in Temples? You said you weren’t religious, so I guess no…’
‘I don’t actively go, but once in a while, I’ll find myself in a Temple, a Mosque or a Church. Or something. It’s nice. I told you about the time seeing Christmas Mass in Vienna, last year?’
The passengers waiting for the tram: a middle-aged tanked top man, with shades and jeans shorts. Classic summer couture; an essential accessory – his beer belly. An old lady; her handbag very much larger than life, and her. Another couple; quite possibly still in high school, continuously and mechanically mouthing pillow talk at each other, eyes fissuring contact solely to check for their oncoming ride. Lost in each other.
The boy and the girl.
Chronological convention places them approaching the so-called prime of human life. But the Postmodern condition eschews such haste. It takes longer to figure oneself out these days. Longer to recover faith in oneself. They stand a foot apart; their flowing dark hairs coming undone due to the heat; statuesque stick figure frames mirroring each other. They could be standing closer. It would be nice if we would, she thinks; he must be wishing the same too. If, for nothing else, just to up the aesthetic street’s mis-en-scene.
Self-conscious clauses in their terms of engagement.
They aren’t lost in each other.
The sun hazes the city; the sharp light creates a languid noon. The tram running through snapshots of the city; showcases what’s up. People are bleeding leisure. Everywhere. People sitting and gossiping on pavement benches, faucets spraying water for passers-by to stop and soak in, people ogling at some building, or simply keeping themselves entertaining. The cars strolling the streets, all bovine.
They travel standing. Plenty of pregnant women, mothers carrying toddlers, and senior citizens aboard to occupy the free seats. So, their hands hang on the dangling straps, the movement of the tram swinging them in and out of each other’s orbit.
He asks whether she’s done packing, she says not yet. He’s got to remind her to give him some things before she leaves. He wonders what. Has she been to Stromovka before? She doesn’t think so. Lockdown kept gallivanting to a minimum.
‘Ya true. That’s why it’s been crazy these last weeks, we get to go all out and about. Everyone is making up for lost time’, his lanky arms wave across the tram.
She remarks about having visited the Bridge and the Castle with her friend who came to visit, the one she introduced him to. In the kitchen? Oh yeah, the one whom she and Anfisa went to Czesky Krumlov with later, he confirms. She waxes poetic about the trip. He wants to somehow insert his recent outings all around town but doesn’t find an opening.
‘How is it going with your roommate now? Still gotta hide when Dan comes?’, prods the boy.
‘He hasn’t come for some time. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, they’ll have all the space they need. But I’m gonna miss her. She’s very sweet…’
Punctuation with a perverse and guilty chuckle.
‘She asked for help again to clear the medical entrance exam. But she’s always so distracted, and a little slow’.
‘Look at Pranav. He seems to keep such late hours, and he’s always on the phone, but I guess he manages his exams somehow…but he’s always gaming, like always…that too on the phone…’
Her face goes blank. For a second.
‘Oh… your roommate? Sorry. I never remember his name…he asks me questions about medicine sometimes. Then… starts talking about his long-distance relationship.’
‘Hah…’, he snorts, ‘don’t even go there. If he’s not gaming, he’s on the phone with her all night. I think they fall asleep on the phone.’
‘Haven’t you ever done that?’, she laughs.
The static in the air reappears.
The Art District: as the city’s tourism website would most capitals in the world have an area dedicated to “creativity” and “expression of the unconventional”. The tram entered the part of town bustling with robust Bohemian energy. Cafes, art galleries, and pubs painted across old buildings, abandoned factories, and a few inconspicuous, bland glass buildings.
Deeper in the district…
Stromovka: perhaps the biggest park in the city, sprawling across two districts. It had been a hunting reserve during the time of the Habsburgs. Now open to the public. A maximalist centre of urban chilling; a Ferris wheel-ed amusement park, an art gallery, and a cottage-ed planetarium crowd the entrance to the trees, hills and ponds beyond.
At least, at the entrance through which they entered the park.
‘What do you think?’
‘Very nice!’
They stare into the hospitable abyss ahead. Gigantic trees stand posted each couple of paces; the canopy fractalizing the sunlight slipping through. A perennial cool breeze around the place. The city’s sounds get muted; instead, it’s rustling of the leaves, stray barks of pet dogs, and murmurs and laughter of people.
‘Yes, we have parks and public places like this back home too.’
“Yeah, that’s what I love about Europe. Y’all have such nice wide public spaces, where you can just chill, relax and spend your day. Where I’m from, all the parks are gated, they have some stupid timings like 9 am to 10 am only, and then again 5 pm to 6 pm or some shit.”
She is amused.
‘I would like to see your country.’, she smiles.
‘I would like to show you around.’, he retorts.
The transition from the tram to the park was maybe an interruption. They’re both in search of the static. They trample the paved path deeper into the maze of avenues and lawns.
‘Oh, by the way…I think I’ve told you before. But I really like those bright yellow pants you’ve got’, he says.
Goofy AF. Although, she can’t help but entertain.
‘You would like a pair?’
‘Yes, actually I really would.’
‘You’d like me to help you go shopping?’
‘Ya…’, he chuckles.
They shuffle side-by-side in unison, half-looking at the path ahead and half at each other. Not so much the rest of the miscellany the boho park has to offer. The cobblestones stop as the path splits in two; upwards and away to left, and keeping down to the ground on the right. They must decide. They decide – Elevation.
‘God, it really sucks. All the time we lost in lockdown. We could’ve gone around town so much more.’, he lays up a set-up. Sets a lay-up. A set-up for a proclamation. A lay-up for a declaration.
‘But do you think we would’ve been friends if it wasn’t for the lockdown? If we weren’t running into each other in the dorm? In the kitchen?’
They halt in their tracks. Her dark brown-to-the-point-of-black irises widen. An opening for a more interesting line of talk. His anticipated trajectory for the conversation derailed, at least for the moment.
‘Uh…of course, we would…’, a voice maybe a shade thinner than the usual croaking drawl.
‘It…it would be the kitchen, cooking and more. You know it would be a restaurant, a pub or a club.’
Voice back to normal; a self-congratulatory grin accompanying it. She flashes a cryptic smirk in response. They resume their climbing. His gaze rests on her, hers on the path ahead.
‘I don’t drink much, or dance.’, she lets slide, ‘You like it?’
He squints and mumbles, ‘Yeah. Time to time.’
The cream-walled, red-hatted mansion, no doubt the ex-Habsburg Hunting House, continues growing larger in stature. The summit is nearing. It plateaus out into a different section of the park. There’s a pause in their conversation. Silence adds voltage to the air. It could lead to frenetic overthinking, but it doesn’t. They enter 4K instead. Helicoptering ping pong gaze. Surround sound breaths audible to each other. It wouldn’t surprise them if they discover telepathy.
‘Your last year, next year. And then you can start putting people under anaesthesia.’
‘First, I’ve got practice for a bit. And then study anesthesiology. But yeah, I’ll be putting people to sleep soon.
‘And you? What are you going to do? Look for a job here, or go back home.’
The boy is laconic: ‘Let’s see how it goes. Right now, I’m just focusing on my degree.’
‘Do you find it difficult?’
‘Umm…some parts…’
‘I don’t think you find it difficult.’
‘I’ve failed an exam.’
‘And then?’
‘I passed the re-test.’
The sun smacks the ground and the summer lawn in front of the towering house overlooking the park below; the cream hue of the house transformed into something more flaming in the atmosphere. The ground leads to another section of the park. But they sit by the bench pigeonholed by the bushes, back of the building. The towering structure cuts a cool shadow over them.
The view: a pastel of greenery and gravel. And also, blue and cotton candy; the sky. Below: the fountained ponds by which people lounged about. Some in the water. The water: turquoise, masquerading as marmalade. People crawling all over the woodwork. Kids and dogs hyperactive in the heat, and laidback adults feeling out the breeze.
‘What about you though…,’ posture, slightly inclined toward her, ‘you gonna look to practice in Bratislava? Or where?’
‘Maybe. Let’s see how it goes. I’ll look for work all over Europe. Here too.’
‘Okay…’, he says, contemplating possibilities.
‘Still, we got to cook a lot…’, her glance returns to the view.
‘But we never cooked together. Only alongside each other. Except when you taught me pancakes.’, the boy starts auditing.
‘Yes…all you made was tea for me, once’, she laments.
Current spillage: cranked air. Time dilation? 8K? Sultry heat despite the draught. A vacuum is formed between the two fresh-faced lanky poles. They sit inclined, angled toward each other. Breathing. And conscious. But vacuums like these have a temporal limit, they can be fragile and fleeting. How he ought to act – he ought to seize the initiative. He thinks.
‘Hey…listen…uh, I...’
Her brows arch in anticipation. It is a good-natured stare; lips at bay with a poker face smile. The gaze is deep.
‘umm… Okay, I wanted to ask you I mean…is…you’re gonna be around in Bratislava around September time?’
‘Hey bro, how are you?’, the spectacled guy greets him, as they ascend up the stairs.
‘I’m okay. How’re you? All good?’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
An abrupt exchange.
View through the spectacles: two stick figures going through the flap doors of the hall, the dry scent of dejection around them.
‘Okay, so I’ll see you later. Thanks for the walk. It was nice.’
‘Yeah.’
Approaching his door, the boy’s sights fall upon the two dudes sitting by the common area further up, in the middle of the hallway. They shout to him, calling him for a smoke.
‘In a bit…I gotta do some lunch first.’
The afternoon sun is on the other side. The kitchen is a desaturated palette. The individual artefacts retain their faded hue. They show the functional bare-bones, instrumental room. One could say this is the décor at its purest. No embellishments.
The lacking-sheen kitchen: the microwave is at it again. Heating a pre-set packaged pasta. The dark-haired apparition, slender and half smile, appears.
‘What you having?’
‘Some ready-made pasta I picked up from Billa. You?’
‘Leftovers from last night.’
Time dilation. Just not so strong. Vanilla conversation ensues; at a lethargic pace. It’s her turn at the microwave. He waits.
‘Ahoj, Hezky Holka…’
She smiles.
Beneath his drowsy decorum, tension builds. Tension that’d been on the simmer since the rout. Neither slow nor gradual now. A bull held hostage in a crockery boutique. Hot plates in their hands, they traffic jam the kitchen entrance.
‘Listen…’, he starts,
It’s not a big deal, she’s going away anyway, and he needs to let her know. It would be good to let her know. Then, he can enjoy his meal, and then smoke with his boys, and then get lost in his clouds. It will be good then. He thinks.
It comes out clumsy.
‘Oh. Why didn’t you say it before?’, she mumbles.
‘Well actually, I did… remember? Okay, I admit, it was all jumbled when I told you. I was a bit drunk.’
She mumbles something about thinking he was joking that time, something about not being in the correct headspace for all this, coz of a messy affair with another boy a while back. This is exactly what she didn’t want. Goddamn confessional melodrama. He is contemplating the goofiness of the whole situation, and his lie of “being drunk that time”. That shit had been stronger than alcohol.
Titanic, in an ocean of cringe.
To halt the haemorrhaging: a dramatic flick of his hair, a tilting head, and a forceful grin muscling out time’s stuttering flow.
‘Ahh…doesn’t matter…’ he says.
‘Future still there, no? I still have to visit the High Tatras, and you still have to show me around Bratislava.’
‘Hmm…’, she thinks.
Out loud.
They had been coasting on possibilities all this while anyway.
