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229584840126000CHAPTER FIVETomorrow Will Be YesterdayTHE DAY, WHEN MY father officially became the first capitalist in Communist Czechoslovakia, he took my mother and me for lunch to a classy Chinese restaurant in Prague’s Vodi?ková Street. “The Bolshevik regime has been treating me like a sub-human for twenty years.” He toasted his independence with a glass of plum wine. “As from today, I can finally seize control of my life and feel proud of myself.”The old headwaiter, who had known Dad since the Prague Spring, politely smiled, handing him the menu. “Lucky you.”“It’s a ground-breaking moment in our history. Trust me.” My father preached the Perestroika gospel to him. “The new business law is similar to a first primrose poking its head from the frozen ground after an endless winter. The political thaw is inevitable and hopefully a revolutionary flood wave will follow soon after.”“You’re an incurable optimist, Mr Urban.” The waiter’s blue eyes shone behind the professional mask of cool self-control. “Your words sound like sweet music to my ears, however it’s the siren’s song, I’m afraid.” He discreetly lowered his voice, pouring Dad another glass of plum wine. “Times might have changed, but the people haven’t. While everyone is waiting for the regime to end, a few compatriots are thinking about new beginnings.”Tilting his head, the headwaiter raised his eyebrows and meaningfully overlooked the restaurant. The majority of other clients were the CEOs from Foreign Trade offices on Wenceslaus Square. Lunching at the lacquered, round tables, the middle-aged Bolsheviks behaved with fake glee, so typical for the working class rulers.“See how sure of themselves they are?”I watched the rosy men in tailored suits carry food to their mouths with chopsticks. Sweating with effort, the only thing they appeared to worry about was the possibility of soiling their trousers.“Let them walk on ice.” Dad confidently smiled. “Can’t you hear it cracking?”“Yes.” The old waiter wistfully shrugged. “But remember, Prague has always been a shallow pond, Mr Urban. Whether the ice will crack or not, none of those big guys will drown. At most, they will sink up to their knees in the mud.”His velvet voice was filled with philosophical acceptance and he radiated an almost aristocratic poise. I found it unfair that someone so cultured should serve people with considerably inferior manners.“Have a look at this.” My father pulled out his Citizen ID to display a fresh stamp certifying that his occupation was to work as an entrepreneur, producing and trading in chemical substances and industrial apparatus. “Do you believe me now?”“Congratulations.” The headwaiter gently patted Dad on the shoulder like an adult praising a child. “I really hope that this job is going to sustain you financially. By the way, have you already chosen the main course?”A few minutes later, a procession of junior waiters surrounded our table, carrying porcelain bowls with rice and trays with a dish called Buddha’s Hand and Kung-Pao. The restaurant staff were locals, but had the instructions to bow to us like Chinese before soundlessly backing away. “Let’s make sure to polish our plates, girls.” Dad served us the meat. “We’ll need to tighten our belts to set up a successful business. I won’t be able to take you out for many months to come.”“Don’t look at me, Jirka. You know that I can survive on a bowl of rice per day.” My mother sounded offended. “If you want to save up money, why don’t you quit smoking?”“I thought that the whole point of becoming a capitalist was to get fat, not skinny.” I couldn’t help poking my dad. “I’ve already spent enough time on a diet when I worked towards becoming a ballerina.”My father poured soy sauce onto his rice, giving me an exaggerated look of parental frustration. “See? This is the sort of insolence you get from your children for being a democratic parent.” I watched him seize the wooden chopsticks and load his mouth with Buddha’s Hand. Having satisfied his voracious appetite, he wiped his greasy lips with a starched napkin, ready to pursue the conversation. “It’s the nature of every business that you must make an investment before reaping profits. Help yourself and God will help you.” He cited the Greek proverb. “Building a successful activity is like planting grains of wheat in the hope that they will germinate and sprout into a rich harvest.”Laying down the chopsticks to show us his hands, Dad typically pointed out that prosperity was due to lots of hard work and miracles, something the Normalization management didn’t understand, which is why our economy had taken such a shameful nosedive during the last two decades.“The Bolsheviks you can see here are the best example of laziness and irresponsible management.” Dad indignantly glared at the communist VIPs around us. “See how they squander our retirement funds on business lunches?” Speaking with his mouth full, he poked the air with chopsticks as if fencing with an invisible adversary.“They’re paid for pretending to create values by shuffling numbers, holding economic conferences and writing fake memos.” He said. “All they do is to accumulate debts and manipulate statistical data to make na?ve people believe that they have everything under control. It’s a complete swindle, of course. By failing to address the future issues, they condemn the society to regression. These guys must be aware that we’re travelling on a sinking ship, but they don’t assume any responsibility for it.” He accusingly pointed his chopsticks at the lunching CEOs. “Waiting for the harsh reality to sink in, they happily imitate the Party’s suicidal attitude. Let’s party, Comrades, until we all go down.” “Watch your table manners, Jirka. You’d also better lower your voice.” My mother reprimanded him. “The first thing you’ll need to learn as entrepreneur is to act like an educated person if you want to make it to the top ten thousand.”“That’s rubbish!” Dad sputtered. “You clearly don’t understand my motivation to do business, Alice. I’m not in it for money.”“What?” I nearly dropped a piece of Buddha’s Hand to my lap. “What else would you want to be a capitalist for?”“Seeing that our industry is a wreck, I’d like to create a prototype of a safety boat to resuscitate our ailing economy. My secret ambition is to help our country regain its lost reputation as the Central European Switzerland by producing useful and environmentally friendly goods.”“I’m sorry, Jirka, but you sound like a communist.” Mum gave him an ironic smile.“No, I don’t!”“Didn’t you just say that you don’t care about money?” I pointed out.“Alright, alright. Admittedly,” Dad fished in his pocket for a lighter, “I hope to earn enough money with my business to hire a team of professional builders to finish the reconstruction of our house and my big dream is to buy a reliable car, which doesn’t overheat.”Inhaling smoke, he paused to formulate his argument. “The principal reason why I took the risk to become an entrepreneur is to leave an important legacy behind to the world.” He solemnly declared. “It’s easier for women to justify their existence. All they need to do is to give birth and become good mothers. Everything else comes as a bonus. The men, on the other hand, are useless like drones. Unless we find a way to employ our force or intellect to advance the society, we merely procreate and then hang around until we die. And I assure you, when I’m lying on my deathbed,” Dad dramatically raised the chopsticks to underline his statement, “I want my heart to be at peace, knowing that I’ve contributed to improving the lifestyle for the generations to come.”After we ordered dessert, he revealed to us his business strategy.“My plan is to put out a line of antistatic laundry products in partnership with the Austerlitz Cooperative.” I saw his yellow eyes glow with Messianic conviction. He really seemed to believe that he was going to make difference to humanity by blending fabric softener in our garage. “Comrade Kocián will take care of the packaging while I’ll be in charge of the distribution.” Dad mused. “As for the advertising, I imagined that Miranda would work for me as a model.” He gave me a wink. “How do you like this idea, honey?”“Are you saying that someone’s going to take pictures of me?” I lit up.“That’s right.” Dad benevolently beckoned the young waiters to place the bowls with raspberry jelly on our table. “You’ll have to start watching your weight from now on, though.” He warned me. “I was hoping that you would put on your tutu and dance like Odette on Anel Revivage packaging.”“What? You want me to pose as a ballerina?” I pushed my dessert away in horror, suspecting that I was already too heavy to get up on my tiptoes. “It’s been years since I’ve put on my tutu.”I didn’t grow much taller since leaving the Conservatory, but I doubted that I could squeeze my budding breasts in the tight elastic bodice. Not to mention that my insteps continued to collapse despite the medical help I had received and my feet were always throbbing with pain.“Think of this as your first step towards becoming a star.” Dad confidently beamed. “Millions of people will see you on their bathroom shelves. You can become famous.”“Like Barbra Streisand?” My mother teased him about his bizarre obsession with the Hollywood actress.“Why not, Alice? Don’t you think that Miranda has it in her?”“I have no doubts about our daughter’s theatrical talent.” She carefully weighed her words. “But do you really want to know what I think?”“Sure.” Dad signalled the headwaiter to bring us the bill.“I was always of the opinion that too much ambition is as bad as being aimless.” The gravity of my mother’s tone surprised me. “Like you’ve said.” She sighed. “Money and success isn’t everything. If you don’t have a loving family, good friends and the time to appreciate the simple pleasures of life, no matter how brightly you get to shine on stage, you’ll never see the light.”2482842-63531200MONTHS LATER, COMRADE ROTTOV? asked me to the blackboard during the Russian class to speak on the subject of the Soviet Union being the best model. We had finished reading a boring article in our outdated textbooks, according to which the USSR represented the world’s leading power in resolving humanity’s problems. The Soviets were ahead of everyone else, the author claimed, having favoured technical progress and scientific approach to terrestrial existence over superstitious beliefs. Reading aloud, my classmates crunched the foreign words like stale biscuits. With the exception of the local pastor’s fat son, no one bothered to search for any meaning behind them. Everybody automatically assumed that it was propaganda. I heard George Beauty mock the Soviet achievements at the back of the classroom, pointing out that the Ukrainian farmers had started to breed cows with two udders in the aftermath of Chernobyl, doubling up the production of radioactive milk.“Tische Rebyata!” The teacher silenced the laughing class by slamming her desk with a wooden ruler. “Listen to what Miranda has to say.” She patted her bleached hairdo and pushed up the crimson glass-frames from the tip of her glossy, button-like nose. “Davay, devochka. How can improve ourselves according to the Soviet example?”The shelves in Mrakonín shops had recently flooded with packages of Anel Revivage, featuring my picture. Dad’s business was beginning to flourish and I was on my way to become a famous star. Naturally, I felt that it was my mission to let everyone know my thoughts about the world.“Nu da.” I spoke fluent Russian. “I think that we can imitate the Soviet model by implementing glasnost.” I gave Comrade Rottová an innocent smile, stating the precise opposite of what she was expecting to hear. “Our country could definitely do with more freedom of the press. My father always complains that if he wants to read about Czech politics, he must buy the Soviet Aktuality.”“Kak? Does he?” The Russian blinked with disagreement, unable to openly criticise a Soviet periodical.Ironically, Aktuality started to come out in the Czech language after the invasion. My parents remembered it as the most ridiculous propaganda compiled by local traitors and Soviet journalists. Twenty years later, however, the weekly journal became the unique publication that featured critical articles about our economy and the war in Afghanistan. “According to Aktuality, the Soviet Union has recently undergone important political changes.” I continued to provoke. “For example, the general secretary Gorbachev has opened the Soviet market to Western capital. This is another example our government should take. My dad, who has a degree in economics, is convinced that the only way to resuscitate our economy is to let foreign investors pump money into our dysfunctional industry to save it from falling apart.”“Da? How interesting.” Comrade Rottová frowned, scribbling a quick note into her paperwork. “Where does your father work?”“He works as a capitalist.”“Chto?” She gasped. “What capitalist?”“Are you familiar with Anel Revivage?” Judging by the smell of green apples on the Russian teacher’s clothes, she must have soaked them in Dad’s antistatic fabric softener.“Pochemu?” She looked bewildered. “What does that have to do with your father?”“That’s one of his recent products. He runs a business out of our garage.” I triumphed.“How is this possible?” The blonde woman peered at me through her glass-frames, speechless. “I thought that the ballerina on the picture was you, but I still find it hard to believe that a socialist store would sell products that weren’t actually made in a socialist factory. I surely hope that the fabric softener has been scientifically tested and that your father has an official approval for this.”“Da. Da. Of course he does.” I grinned.Anel Revivage owed its popularity to an attractive cardboard casing featuring a bar code and my radiant picture in a white tutu. With the wind fluffing up a lacy curtain in the background, I danced on my points in front of an American washing machine, Philco. Unsurprisingly, half my classmates reeked of green apples, including the beauty queen Prochazková who eyed me with a mixture of admiration and envy.“Who gave your father permission to run a business?” Comrade Rottová thought of herself as an expert on socialist jurisdiction, seeing that she also taught Civic Science and acted as the headmaster’s deputy.“The parliament.” I replied with confidence. “Didn’t you hear about the individual business law?”“Kakiye business law?” She despaired. “In a socialist society?” I had never seen this dedicated communist so unsettled. “How is this possible?”“It’s because of the Perestroika, tovariscz Rottová.” I drove the point home. “Dad has simply followed the Soviet model by investing into technical progress and developing a modern technology.” The classic Czech technique of challenging the stupidest of lies is to pretend to be so na?ve as to believe in them. It worked wonders and I rejoiced to see Comrade Rottová disarmed and disoriented. Unable to punish my masked audacity by criticising my good language skills, she marked me with an A and handed me back my report book with an indignant look as if I had scratched the flowery wallpaper in her living room.After the school bell chimed for recess, I grabbed my sandwich and headed to the corridor, surrounded by a group of female fans. Ever since Anel Revivage appeared on the local shelves, I started to have heaps of friends. The same girls who had never showed interest in talking to me, wouldn’t leave me alone now. Similar to professional gossip columnists, my new entourage incessantly pumped me for information and nodded to everything I said. “Did you actually mean it when you’ve stated that your father followed the Soviet example by becoming a capitalist?” Flora Frypan began the interview. The fat girl took it upon herself to elbow the younger children out of my way and take messages from my potential suitors, assuming the role of my personal assistant and a bodyguard.“Of course not.” I rolled my eyes to display my profound disdain for our country’s occupants. “Who would want to have anything to do with the Russians?”“Exactly.” My fans droned in collective agreement while we circulated the crowded hallway, eating our snacks. “They’re so uncool.”“You’ve been to the West, Miranda.” Flora purred. “How is it?”“It’s great.”“Is it like in Hollywood movies?”“It’s like a fairy tale come true.” I said. “I can’t even start describing it. Everything is automated and digitalised. You can grab anything you want in the shops as long as you possess a magic credit card. You no longer need any money. I swear to God. Modern Capitalism comes closer to Communism than anything I’ve seen here.” “Your sister is lucky to live there.”“Oh yeah.”“She must be so happy!”“Indeed.” I lied. “Blissfully happy.”We almost never heard from Marta lately. She took to sending us presents instead of letters. Thanks to the Western clothes she gave me for Christmas, I became one of the prettiest girls in school. Everyone envied me my jeans and the T-shirt adorned with a pineapple made of green and orange spangles. Prochazková had also swapped her old corduroys for jeans, but hers weren’t marbled. She bought them from the Vietnamese refugees who arrived in Czechoslovakia in the eighties as a part of war-debt repayment program. The tiny Asians who had initially started off as slaves in our factories rapidly adapted to the new conditions. Running sweatshops in their dormitories, they copied Western fashion brands and flooded the black market with nice outfits. Thanks to the entrepreneurial Vietnamese community, bright colours seeped into everyone’s clothing, replacing the grey, which was so symptomatic of the Normalization. As more people smuggled electronic gadgets from East Germany, satellite dishes started to pop out on housing estate balconies like mushrooms, enabling the working class to gain access to Western television. Nothing could stop the capitalistic spirit from taking over the Czech population.“Hey, Miranda, do you have any rare cans to trade?” A chubby blonde boy from year seven called out to me across the corridor. Max Weisberg might have been one of the worst students, but he was running a nifty business with collectible drink cans. Unashamed to pick through the trashcans at public places frequented by Western tourists, he sold unbroken drink cans on the school black market for up to five crowns a piece. Collecting aluminium wraps was a popular hobby amongst the working class kids in the eighties. They weren’t available on the domestic market, because the Socialist shops exclusively sold soft drinks in glass bottles. After I returned from Italy, I had shocked my schoolmates by sipping Cherry Coke from a can during recess. Max was so impressed with me, he offered to pay three crowns for the aluminium wrap.“Sorry mate. I’m temporarily out of cans.” I replied coolly. “Wait until I go to see my sister the next time. Her fridge is always full of Diet Cokes.”“Diet Cokes?” Max whistled. “Gosh. She’s got to be well off.”“What does Diet Coke taste like?” The girls around me wanted to know.“Eh, it’s fairly similar to regular Coca-Cola . . .” I stammered, reluctant to admit my ignorance. “Obviously, it contains less sugar, but it’s sweet and you know, it kind of . . . smells of vanilla.”Passing the lavatories, I could see the children’s black market in full action. Everyone seemed busy hunting for profit inside. Boys were trading in posters with the pictures of voluptuous pop-stars. They also circulated the German pop-culture magazine, Bravo, and pirate tapes with Western music. And if I could believe, what Flora Frypan told me, the sixteen-year old Gypsy girl who was repeating the seventh grade for the third time, sold herself inside the toilet booth. I thought it unlikely, however, that anyone would pay for Monika Gaborová. She had a dark, pockmarked face, hairy bottom and stumpy legs.“Did you get lots of money for posing as an ad model?” My entourage continued to question me when we turned the corner. “Weren’t you feeling nervous in front of the camera? Do you think that we’re going to see you on television one day?”“If I can pass the auditions to the Conservatory of Theatre next year, I’m hoping to become a comedienne.” I replied with modesty.“Really?” The circle around me excitedly tightened. “Perhaps we’ll be proud to have known you, someday, when you’ll play an important part in a TV series?”Looking in the girls’ eager faces, I almost felt ashamed of acting as an object of their submissive admiration. It seemed as easy to earn their respect as it was dangerous to disappoint them. “Don’t you want to dance anymore?” Flora unintentionally touched my sorest point. “You looked like a great ballerina in that picture.”“I did.” I stretched my lips into a forced smile. “Didn’t I?”None of the shoppers who had bought Anel Revivage would ever guess the amount of excruciating pain it had cost me to stand on points while the professional photographer snapped my shots. I was surprised that I ended up looking so fresh and joyful on the packaging.My smile was so fake it made me sick to look at myself.2280574188595000I was relieved when the school bell ended my interview. Despite acting confident and enthusiastic, I never got over the loss of my childhood dreams. My sister was gone. My parents didn’t have time for me since starting the business. I didn’t have close friends to whom I could show my true identity, having buried my face under the layers of different roles I felt I had to play to preserve my successful image. At times, I could no longer remember who I was. As the Devil’s voice continued to grow stronger in my head, the melody inside my heart became inaudible. My vertebras cracked and my feet painfully stumbled on invisible pieces of broken glass. Heading towards my illustrious future, I concealed the sadness that seeped into my lonely soul like blue ink behind a smooth, optimistic ING HOME IN THE evening, I was amazed to find Dad at the dining table. Recently, he was always out and running about until late hours. I rarely had a chance to interact with him since he had become the entrepreneur.“Ahoj. Guess what? I got an A in Russian and taught Comrade Rottová a lesson.” I informed him. “Hmmm. Well done.” He said, without looking up from his accounting paperwork. Invoices and receipts spread everywhere in great disarray, including the floor. A crystal ashtray overfull with cigarette butts sat on a crumpled sheet of Aktuality. The Voice of America gurgled in the background. A dusty TV screen flicked next to our fireplace, displaying bloated faces of Bolshevik politicians who discussed the challenges of the Perestroika.“We must not always do what our Soviet Comrades tell us to do.” The chief of the Czechoslovak Politburo had a low forehead and an oversized jaw like a Neanderthal. I watched his round, fish-like eyes bulge with effort to formulate absent thoughts. “For example if the Secretary Gorbachev told us to jump out of the window, we should think about it twice. Let’s don’t forget that we’re an independent nation with an independent history and culture.” Milo? Jake? came across so stupid, he actually sounded funny.“Don’t you find this absurd, Jirka?” Mum laughed, carrying our soup plates from the kitchen. “The same people who had invited the Soviets into our country are the biggest opponents of Gorbachev’s politics today.”“This is exactly what I’ve said to Comrade Rottová.” I pointed out.I was hoping to impress my parents, but they were too tired to listen to me.“Grrrr . . . the speculations that Gorbachev . . . yuiii . . . his planned meeting with Helmut Kohl . . . grrrr . . . to see Germany reunited . . . yuiii . . . are quite realistic says Václav Havel . . . grrrr.”“That’s interesting, Alice.” My father turned up the volume on the radio. “Selling East Germany to Helmut Kohl would be the smartest move on Gorbachev’s part. I bet that’s what he plans to do to save the Soviet rouble from inflation. West Germans are going to fork out a fortune to get their territory back.” I noticed that Dad’s skin was lime green. The bags under his eyes looked like storm clouds. My mother had an equally unhealthy appearance. To increase the production of Antistat, she frequently helped Peter in the garage in addition to her performance as a housewife and Dad’s trusted secretary. She was so drained, she didn’t have the energy to enforce the media ban at our dining table. We ate our soup listening to the news. After my mother served the second course, the phone started to ring.“Yes. How many cases?” My father yelled, writing down the orders. He always spoke louder when he answered long distance calls. “The retail price for Anel Revivage is twelve crowns a piece and eight for Anel Spray.”By the time he wrapped up the sale, I finished my meat. “Two and half thousand Anel Sprays plus three thousand Anel Revivage.” I watched him calculate the sale, mopping up the cold sauce with a stale dumpling. How much is eight percent of fifty-six thousand crowns?“Almost four and half thousand.” I was quick to reply.“Excellent.” He poured beer in his glass. “That’s what I’ve just made.” My mother stopped biting her nails. “Good. We’ll be able to pay the mortgage bill on time.” “So far we’re on top of everything.” Dad leaned back in his chair, acknowledging my existence. “How was school?”“I told you, Dad. I’ve won a political argument with my Russian teacher!” I proudly declared. “I seriously think I put a crack in the stupid theories Comrade Rottová keeps peddling about. It’s a pity you weren’t there to hear me. She nearly had a seizure when I informed her that you work as a capitalist.”I imagined that my father would be happy to see me politically engaged, but his eyes turned the colour of beer.“Co?e? That was really stupid of you, Trumpet!” He nearly broke his glass when he slammed it on the table. “Do you want to get me in trouble?”“No,” I was shocked. “I thought—.”“What did you think?” Dad exploded. “Tell me. I would really like to know what was going on in your brain!”Getting on the wrong side of my father was a frightening experience. Bolts of anger flashed from his pupils, pinning me down to my chair.“Boasting to a Russian teacher that I work as a capitalist is similar to pulling a black mamba by the tail!” He roared so loud, I heard the crystal icicles crackle in my great grandmother’s chandelier. “The next thing we’ll know, she’s going to send letters to the Federal Parliament, urging the deputies to ban my activities.”“You have nothing to worry about, Dad.” I tearfully retorted. “Didn’t the Parliament officially approve of the individual business law?”“Je?i?marja! How many times do I have to explain that the Bolsheviks didn’t intend to legalise large enterprises like the one I’m running?” My father howled. “The individual business law was designed to allow people to sell roasted sausages in the street or carve wooden toys. I’m able to operate on a large scale, because of the gaps in the Socialist jurisdiction. If they get plugged, I’ll be hung out to dry.”Realising the huge size of my mistake, I felt as if the ground was beginning to quake beneath my feet. The world of grownups was similar to a labyrinth of distorted mirrors. Many things seemed to work in reverse. One could be bad by performing good deeds or actually do well by behaving badly. One could even become a traitor by being loyal. My parents’ guidance provided me with the only clues I could trust. Dad’s fierce disapproval crushed my self-confidence and left me desperately confused.“You have no idea what a thin line I’m treading since Comrade Kocián had his heart attack.” I saw my father clutch his stomach, a sign that his peptic ulcer was causing him indigestion. He told me that after the chief’s departure on sick leave, the second man in command started to abuse the cooperative’s partnership with my dad’s enterprise. “This Comrade Bogus always pressures me to increase the sales, ignoring the fact that many department stores are scared of purchasing goods from a private subject.” Dad bitterly complained. “For every single sale that goes through, two get cancelled.”“I’m sorry to hear this, Dad. I had no idea.” I swallowed my tears. “Don’t yell at me, though. I’m always on your side. Remember? I’ve done lots of work to promote your products and never asked you for a penny.”I turned to Mum for support, but she was unsympathetic.“How dare you speak about money?” She flared her nostrils. “You sound like Marta. Don’t you realise that we’ve gambled everything on Dad’s business? If it doesn’t pay off, we’ll have to put our house on the market to settle our debts.”“You’ve jeopardised our entire existence by showing off in front of your classmates, Trumpet.” My father condemned me. “You should be ashamed.”I burst into sobs, unable to bear the thought of being responsible for losing our home after so much time and effort we had invested into refurbishing it with our own hands. I remembered the Czech pilot who, having joined the RAAF during the World War II to combat the Nazis, ended up bombing his hometown during a British air raid, killing his whole family. “It wasn’t my intention to show off in front of anyone.” I hiccupped, defending my position. “I didn’t see any harm in telling Comrade Rottová the truth when she asked me what you did for a living.” Streams of snot ran down from my nose. “I seriously don’t understand. How many times I’ve heard you say to different people that you work as a capitalist? I had no idea it was so dangerous, Dad.”“Let me be the judge of what I can say and to whom I speak.” My father eventually relented at the sight of my tears. “It takes a lot of experience to get away with what I’m doing.” He pointed out that the Normalization society was based on intricate lies and everything depended on the appropriate wording. “If anyone asks you again about my profession, call me an entrepreneur instead of capitalist. The chances are they won’t even know what the word entrepreneur stands for.”“How can you tell the right words from the wrong ones?” I helplessly sniffed. “Is it because you’ve trained as a spy?”“That too.” My father amusedly exhaled smoke through his nose. “Two years in the intelligence service have taught me one thing.” He said. “There're always good and bad people on both sides, with the exception of Russian teachers and concierges.”“What do you mean?” I was puzzled.“They’re always bad.”“Why is that?”“I don’t know.” Dad shrugged. “Why does every fairy tale feature a wicked witch? Loveless, old women are the pillars of every evil regime. You’d be surprised how many personal tragedies resulted from denunciations by jealous gossipmongers from the Street Party Committees during the fifties.”I pictured my Russian teacher pacing in front of a firing squad. “Ready. Aim. Fire.”A fireball of fear exploded in my lungs, consuming all the oxygen I needed to breathe.“Do you think that Comrade Rottová is going to destroy us?” I gasped with horror. “Hopefully she won’t go that far.” Dad winked, taking pity on me. “A couple of free samples of Anel Revivage should bring her back to her senses.”Despite my dad’s reassurance that he would be able to run damage control with my Russian teacher, I spent a sleepless night. “Nothing isss asss it ssseemsss.” The Devil’s voice started to sizzle at the back of my mind as soon as my head hit the pillow. “Sssee? Even the bessst intentionsss can lead to disssassstrousss resssultsss.” My skin crawled when I heard Satan laugh. “Inssstead of becoming a ssstar, you’ll be a ssssucessssful sssnitch!”Closing my eyes, I could see millions of tiny worms wriggle on the screen of my mind instead of the usual snakes and I began to wonder if this was the sign that my soul was becoming rotten. “Please, my little God. Don’t abandon me.” I kneeled down with my hands clasped. “Forgive me for my vanity. Take a pity on me and I promise to become entirely true to myself and dedicate my life to charity.”The next morning, I presented myself at Mrakotín High looking like a shadow of my former self, resigned to show my true emotions even if it meant that I was going to be vulnerable. “What’s wrong with you, Miranda?” Flora Frypan threw her chubby arm around my shoulders in a gesture of fake compassion. She wouldn’t allow me to circulate the hallway alone during recess. “Are you okay?”My entourage looked equally alarmed and secretly pleased to see me out of form. My gossipy classmates reminded me of piranhas, preparing to rip my reputation to pieces if I dared to turn my back on them. “Everything is fine.” I stretched my lips into a dazzling smile, hearing myself twitter against my best intentions. “I ended up going to bed late last night, trying to finish an interesting book, capito?”I was an amazing actress.center72831800When Flora suspiciously examined my smiling mask, I felt as if my head was going to explode like an overripe watermelon, but I realised that someone as average as the self-proclaimed gossip columnist would never feel sorry for me. The smartest way to keep blabbermouths like her at bay was to keep smiling.I NEVER FOUND OUT if Comrade Rottová actually wrote a letter to denounce Dad?s business activities. When he went to see her a couple of days later, the Russian teacher was eager to accept several samples of antistatic laundry detergent. She assured my father that she was aware of my tendency to exaggerate. She apparently wasn’t inclined to take my controversial statements seriously. Whether she was sincere or not was difficult to tell. Surely enough, she never provided me with another opportunity to publicly voice my opinions.With or without my contribution, my father’s path to capitalism became increasingly paved with obstacles.I saw him drive off to a different town each day to knock on the doors in regional marketing departments. Like a comedian in a one-man show, he typically carried his stage props in a small suitcase. Whenever I could, I accompanied him on his business trips, employing my talent to enhance his performance. His audience was invariably made of middle-aged women. Regardless of Dad’s mood or the weather conditions, he invariably delivered his marketing spiel with a genuine sense of humour and rarely returned home without a couple of orders under his belt. His monthly turnover spilled into hundreds of thousands of crowns, but while his clientele continued growing, the number of people who resented his success equally multiplied.Initially, the Austerlitz Cooperative senior staff felt pessimistic about the Aparatura, attempting to dissuade Comrade Kocián from establishing the business partnership with Dad. As soon as the unlikely project proved profitable, however, the ambitious depute moved on to steal it. Seeing that Comrade Kocián was unwell and too weak to interfere, Comrade Bogus instructed the cooperative lawyers to find a formal reason to cancel the contract with my father’s enterprise. His next step was to announce the intention to confiscate the chemical module from our garage, using a fabricated argument that the Aparatura had been somehow co-funded with the Cooperative’s money. The treacherous depute wasn’t ashamed to approach Peter Hába behind my father’s back, promising the heart-broken nerd a generous pay for betraying his boss. He proposed to hire Peter to assemble the Aparatura in Austerlitz and train new staff to service it. When my father eventually found out about the whole setup, objecting that he was the owner of the Aparatura’s patent, Comrade Kocián’s second man in command showed his sharp teeth. Nothing would deter Comrade Bogus from getting his hands on the rare fruit of Dad’s labour. He went so far as to blackmail my parents with evidence of illegal practice in our garage such as the coconut disaster two years before. End of story.“Here we go, Alice. This is how the new Bolsheviks do business.”I overheard my parents’ crisis conference one night when I tiptoed to the kitchen to snatch something to eat from the fridge. I was always hungry these days, reading Lev Tolstoy’s in the stairway. “The younger generation of communists don’t see any difference between theft and capitalism.” Dad’s chest rattled with an ugly cough. “This Bogus thinks that running a business means exploiting people.” Standing by the door, I heard the fire crackle in our fireplace. “People like him will use any available ideology to twist your arm.” My father wearily observed. “It doesn’t matter to them if it’s called Communism or some other hogwash. They don’t believe in anything and the saddest thing is that their ignorance becomes a valuable asset as it enables them to behave with complete ruthlessness.”“You can’t win a direct confrontation with an idiot.” My mother unhappily agreed. “Listen, Jirka, why don’t we wrap up this business operation and get regular jobs. Our earnings should almost pay for what we owe to the bank.”“You can’t be serious, Alice.” Dad growled like a wounded bear. “Who’s going to give me a regular job? Besides, I don’t want to go back to shovelling coal into a furnace when we’re virtually standing on the threshold of freedom!”“What else can we do?” Mum bit her nails. Peeking through the gap in the door, I could see my poor father sit close to the fire, staring into the dying flames. Eventually, he pulled out a cigarette from his pocket and thoughtfully licked it.“Let Bogus take the Aparatura.” I watched him press a burning stick to the tip of his Sparta. Inhaling smoke, he started to rumble about an international chemical fair in Bratislava. “We can always hire a stand at Incheba to exhibit our products, including the model of the Aparatura.” His red eyes reflected the embers. “I’ve heard there are lots of buyers from the West. Maybe we can attract their interest. West Germans especially are investing in ecological technologies. I’m confident that we’re able to match the Western technical standards, but I doubt that anyone in Western Europe can compete with our production costs.”“What are you saying, Jirka?” My mother stiffened as if suspecting that Dad had gone completely nuts. “Do you actually intend to make a living by selling the Aparaturas to the West?”center97171500“Who knows?” I saw my father swallow pills for peptic ulcer. “You can’t say that something doesn’t work unless you’ve tried it, Ali?ko.” He forced himself to sound optimistic, but I could tell that he was supressing pain as he spoke. Then, presumably to conceal his gnawing doubts, he bent down to poke the embers. WEEKS later, I FOUND myself standing on the Danube riverbank in the Slovak capital, wearing my points and the Odette’s tutu. It was a sunny day in Bratislava. The Incheba visitors meandered through the labyrinth of pavilions and open stalls, sweating in the heat. My task was to hand out flyers to Dad’s potential clients and point them to our display. The fair was open to the general public and it was surprisingly crowded. Most stands exhibited boring lab gadgets and there wasn’t much to look at. Colourful posters and balloons hung between the trees and the smell of charred sausages permeated the air. Without doubt, the most popular stand was the one that offered draft Pilsen Urquell. A folkloric band in embroidered costumes played a string of energetic polkas on stage. The trumpeters puffed out their cheeks like mating frogs. Two female singers swayed to the rhythm, cradling weighty bosoms in their arms like infants. I could see the Bolshevik executives of the State chemical plants drink Slivovitz at the nearby kiosk. They wore shapeless brown suits and vulgar ties, in sharp contrast to the Western businessmen who strolled past me in tailored shirts, exuding the smell of fine cologne. I made it a point to address the smoothly shaven foreigners with the most brilliant smiles, perceiving them as Dad’s potential saviours.“Gutten Tag.” I intercepted a couple of German speaking men. “Here is something remarkable for you to see.” Handing each of them a flier with a conspicuous wink, I suggested in broken German that if they followed me to Dad’s display, they had the opportunity to strike the business deal of their dreams.Our stand was inside a large, concrete pavilion next to the musical stage. Despite the trumpeting competition in front of the entrance, my dad’s rolling voice attracted many onlookers. As I led the intrigued Westerners down the aisle, I was glad to see a crowd listening to my father’s ardent monologue. The spectators frequently applauded, visibly enjoying the show, even if none of them looked like a potential buyer.“Green technologies are the way of the future.” I heard my dad announce. Both my parents wore laboratory coats, looking remarkably professional. “The times when the Politburo thought they could command the wind and rain are gone!” He recalled a communist catchphrase from the fifties. “Natural resources aren’t endless and industrial expansion is restricted by the size of our planet. Unless we change our life style to meet Nature’s ways, our children will pay dearly for our selfishness. This is why I’ve brought together a group of scientists and put together a prototype of a versatile mini-factory to facilitate ecological production of chemicals.” Dad lifted the Aparatura model from the display table and raised it above his head like Holy Grail. “Each one of the numerous components in this original kit is exclusively Czech-made.” He told the audience. “The Aparatura features original technical solutions by local inventors, which proves that our country is full of creative potential despite the decades of forced procrastination. Our reputation for having golden hands is hardly a myth.” “Do you have a minute, Dad?” I tugged at his bleached coat. “I’ve brought you some clients from the West.” The gentlemen in silken shirts politely shook hands with my father who confidently switched to German to ask them where they came from. It turned out they came from Zurich, where they ran a renowned company that sold precise laboratory devices. The Swiss eagerly presented us with their catalogue, but seemed curious enough to check out Dad’s products. I was pleased to see their eyes widen behind their fashionable glass frames when they noted the bar code on Anel Revivage packaging. “Sehr sch?n.” They flattered us, but as soon as they found out that Dad was running his own enterprise, they lost interest. “It’s getting late.” I saw them cast distracted looks at their Breitling wristwatches, apologising that they had to rush to an appointment. “Bye, bye, sweetie.” They condescendingly patted me on the head and handed business cards to Dad with a vague promise to catch up with us sometime later.When I reassumed my position at the entrance to the fair, I was shocked to see the smoothly shaven businessmen sit at a table inside the Lachema display next to the Pilsen Urquell stand. Drinking Bohemia Sekt with the bumbling executive of this major chemical plant, the Swiss behaved as if they were his best friends.“I don’t understand.” I verged on the brink of tears when I reported the Westerners’ betrayal to my father. “Did they snub you to rush to an appointment with a communist CEO? Don’t they know that Bolsheviks are enemies of Capitalism?”“The two Swiss are probably here to sell their products, not to buy.” Dad regretfully scratched his scalp. “Obviously, it’s easier to pitch a sale to a State company than to an entrepreneur.” He said. “All they need is to bribe the management with enough bars of Toblerone to make them purchase their wares. A business owner will always think twice before paying for anything out of his own pocket.”I was sad to find out that there was no such thing as solidarity between capitalists. In times when Communism and Capitalism were waging the Cold War, I wanted to think of the Western businessmen as our allies, not our competitors. I imagined that they should boycott the communist establishment, but the Swiss did precisely the opposite. Hiding behind a Lachema poster, I saw the men in silken shirts present the rosy CEO with a collection of Swiss army knives and a silver fountain pen in a wooden box, which the Bolshevik used to sign the acquisition order.My father was right. The Westerners weren’t interested in a partnership of equals.Unsurprisingly, the Swiss never returned to our stand nor did any other of the other smiling Westerners whom I had dragged to our display that afternoon. Each of them blabbered something vaguely encouraging about the possibilities of future collaboration, hastily walking away with a polite excuse. Before the day was over, a stack of Western business cards sat on our table like a deck of Tarot, glossy and difficult to read as the individuals behind them.The solar circle gradually turned the colour of blood oranges and rolled behind the Bratislava Castle. The alders and elms lining the Danube sprinkled my head with pollen, covering my tutu in yellow dust. As the fair became deserted, I was beginning to feel exhausted. With my toes painfully squeezed inside the points and my facial muscles sore from smiling, I prepared to walk back to Dad’s display, when a couple of burly men unexpectedly blocked my way. “Priviet!” They nearly spilled beer from plastic cups onto my costume. “What kind of promotion is this?” The Russians inquired, pointing at my flyers. “Aren’t you a lovely ballerina? We also have ballerinas in the Soviet Union, you know?” They tried to sound friendly. “Davay. Dance something for us.”“Izvinite.” I apologised. “I’m here to do glasnost, not to dance.”“Glasnost?” The Russians showed me their golden teeth. “What for?” They laughed.“Nothing that could be of any interest to you.” I attempted to brush past them, but couldn’t shake them off. They ended up tailing me all the way to our stand. My mother had already started to pack everything in boxes, but a few Anel Sprays were still sitting on the display table.“Posmotri.” The Russians threw themselves on the attractive packets like hungry wolves. “Isn’t she the ballerina in the picture?” They pulled out the glass bottles capped with miniature pumps.“Priviet, gentlemen. How can I help you?” My mother forced herself to smile. “We’re about to close.” She protectively threw her arms around me, pulling me behind the stand. “Bespokoytes.” The Russians rested their beer cups on our table. “We won’t take much time to test your products. They seem ochegn interesting.” The men’s breath carried an unmistakable smell of alcohol. I watched them spray each other’s clothes with antistatic solution, looking like children playing at war.“Is there anything I can do for you?” My father boomed in Russian. He didn’t smile, making it clear that the men’s presence at our stand was unwelcome.“What purpose does the Anel Spray serve?” The taller of two curiously unscrewed the pump from the bottle to sniff its contents.“It’s supposed to protect your clothes from static electricity.” Dad replied. “I run a business with antistatic laundry products.”“A business you say.” The Russian rolled his eyes. For a moment, it looked as if he was going to fall asleep.In the meantime, I saw his shorter partner pump some Anel Spray into his mouth. Before my parents had time to stop him, he too unscrewed the pump from the bottle and emptied its contents in one long gulp. “Lovely.” He groaned, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his synthetic shirt. “It tastes like Vodka flavoured with coconut! What’s your asking price, tovariscz?”“Ten crowns a piece.” Dad was beginning to look impatient. He grabbed the empty bottle from the Russian and put it back in the package. “It’s about one rouble. But consider it a gift.”“Chto? Only one rouble?” The Russians looked at each other as if they came across a bargain. “How many of these have you got?” They wanted to know. “We’ll buy them all.”“Niet. Niet.” My father waved his arms in refusal. “These aren’t for sale. They’re only samples on display. I’m here to sell this.” He pulled the Aparatura model out of a box. “Posmotrite.” He showed it to the Russians. “This is an automated, versatile laboratory kit capable of producing any chemical substance from alcohol to the antistatic agent I use to make Anel Spray.”“Poniatno.” The taller Russian nodded. Scrambling in his pocket, he found a piece of crumpled paper covered in large Cyrillic letters. “Sposibo.” He handed it to my father. “Thanks. We’ll be in touch.”“Oh dear.” My mother sighed with relief, seeing the two men unsteadily walk away. “That’s the last thing we needed.” I watched her clean up the mess from our table with a paper towel. “Let’s hope that those fools aren’t going to get sick as a result of drinking industrial alcohol.”“Don’t worry.” Dad threw the Russian business card in the bin. “They’re most likely immune to methyl alcohol.” He laughed, saying that the Soviets were used to drinking anything since Gorbachev had issued the ‘dry law’, rationing Vodka.I headed to the back of the pavilion to wash my face in the lavatories and put on my civilian clothes. When I came back fifteen minutes later, I was surprised to see my father speak to a bizarrely tall man who sounded like the famous opera singer, Fedor Chaliapin. The Russian had a bulging stomach and carried a plastic shopping bag in his bear-like paw.“Vasyli Gromkov, priviet.” He rumbled as a way to introduce himself, stating that he worked as a commissioner for the Soviet chemical industry in our country. “I believe that you’ve already met my colleagues shortly before.” Comrade Gromkov maintained that the Russians we had chased away were deeply impressed with my father’s products. “They informed me that you actually operate as a private subject. Is it true?”“Eto pravda.” Dad uneasily confirmed. “Nice to meet you.” I watched him shake the commissionaire’s hand. “So, what brings you to our stand, Vasyli?” “Nu chto? Like everyone else here at Incheba. I’m looking for business partners.”It turned out that Mr Gromkov’s mission was to discover new ways of collaboration between our two countries. When he stressed the word collaboration, I noticed that my father’s eye twitched. Collaborating with Russians, I realised, was the worst sin in Dad’s book. Mr Gromkov spoke with earnestness about the need to enforce the Perestroika policies and to review our national interests with the aim to establish direct commercial relationships between the Czech and Soviet companies. He was of the opinion that the system of centralised management, as we had known it in Normalization, didn’t serve its purpose. It was too rigid, the commissionaire affirmed. There should be more space for individual initiatives.“Do you honestly believe in the Perestroika?” Dad fixed the man?s eyes, standing next to the huge Russian like Davide with Goliath. “Konechno.” The big man gravely nodded. “Things can’t go the way they’ve been going before, that’s for sure.”“You see,” my father warmed up, “I was against the invasion in 1968, but I’m a huge admirer of Michael Gorbachev.”“Da. Da. We all love Misha.” Mr Gromkov scratched his bald scalp as if Dad’s remark made him itchy. “He’s our only hope. It’s only too bad about his ‘dry law’. But speaking about alcohol, Boris Pavlovich told me that you’re exhibiting an apparatus, which can produce it.” The Russian bent down to study the Aparatura model on the display table. “Naverno.” He boomed. “How does it work?”I could see my father cheekily grin. “I’m afraid that your colleague doesn’t have the expertise to appreciate the Aparatura’s versatility. It can make much more than booze.” Describing the Aparatura’s multiple functions, he pointed out that the automated mini-factory drastically reduced the involvement of human factors in the production process.“Seryozno?” Mr Gromkov mopped his face with a handkerchief, admitting that human factors were a big problem in the Soviet Union. “This is just between us,” he cautiously lowered his deep voice, “the most serious threat to our chemical industry is the high percentage of employees who drink on the job.”“Da?” Dad contentedly rubbed his hands. “In this case, the Aparatura would be the perfect solution for you.”“We’ll have to see each other again.” Mr Gromkov agreed.Searching his plastic bag for a business card, he sadly concluded that he had run out of them. To make it up to us, he pulled out his wallet and showed us pictures of his wife, children and five grandchildren.“Izvinite. I have to leave now.” He checked his mechanical, Soviet-made wristwatch. “What are your plans for this evening?”My parents looked at each other. “Pochemu?” Dad wondered. “We were hoping to be on our way back to Prague.” “Niet. Niet. That’s out of question.” Mr Gromkov insisted that he had to introduce my father to someone important from the Soviet ministry of Chemistry. Reluctant to reveal more, he limited himself to advising my father to turn up at the Fisherman’s Bastion, a swanky restaurant by the castle. “Don’t forget to bring the Aparatura model with you tonight.” He reminded him. “Paka. See you at eight.” Mr Gromkov cordially saluted us. Collecting the plastic bag from our table, he marched away with his fat legs apart like a wrestling champion.“Paka.” Dad waved behind him as if in trance.“Do you seriously intend to go to that meeting, Jirka?” My mother grumbled as we dismantled our stand, packing everything into our ?koda. “Let’s drive home, please. It’s getting dark and we have a long way to go.”“When you look for a way out of trouble, you must follow every lead.” Dad wearily stuffed a cigarette between his lips. “Bear with me, girls. My gut instinct tells me that we should give it try.” He slammed the trunk shut.“But what lead can you follow with that guy?” I cried out with indignation. “Do you realise that he’s Russian?”“So what?” He gave me a scolding look. “Similar to every other people in the world, Russians also divide between good and bad souls.”We found the Fisherman’s Bastion crouching at the foot of the castle hill. The rustic cottage featured aquariums in the windows. I could see catfish floating in the fluorescent light when we parked our ?koda between a silver BMW and a black Volha. This was obviously the trendiest place in town. Judging by the humming of the voices inside, the restaurant was packed.“You don’t need to go in with me if you don’t want to, girls.” My father seized the Aparatura model from the back seat. “I won’t be long.”“No, no, we’ll come along. Thanks.” Mum and I jumped outside. We knew from experience that if we let Dad go without us, the chances were that he would engage in an endless conversation and forget about our existence.I watched my mother use the side mirror to put on lipstick and her big straw hat. Straightening her creased skirt, she transformed herself into a lady. As we walked to the restaurant, I heard her heels click like castanets. The Fishermen’s Bastion was filled with cigarette smoke. It took us a moment to see through it.“Zdravstvuyte!” Mr Gromkov stood up to greet us. “I’m so glad you could come.” The commissionaire thundered in his operatic voice from a large table in the corner. “Let me introduce you to Tovariscz Minister. Victor Ivanovich is currently running the chemical industry in the Soviet Union.” He presented Dad to an imposing man at the head of the table.“Priviet.” The minister smiled.Victor Ivanovich was in his early forties, unusually young for a government official. Wearing a disillusioned expression on his finely chiselled face, he reminded me of a sad clown. A half a dozen broad-shouldered Russians made his company at the table. I was relieved to see that the two guys we had met earlier in the afternoon were missing. My mother’s aristocratic appearance visibly intimidated the minister’s entourage. When she stepped forward to shake tovariscz Ivanov’s hand, the Russians unconsciously straightened their postures like students facing the school inspector.“Ochegn priviet.” Mum greeted the minister as if this was something she did every day. “How do you do?”To my astonishment, the Soviet official stood up and bent down to kiss her hand, behaving like an officer from a Tolstoy novel. “Good, thank you.” He clicked his heels. “Would you mind joining us for dinner?” With an authoritative gesture, the minister beckoned the restaurant staff to add three chairs to the table. Bolshoye sposiba.” Dad looked keen to accept the invitation, but my mother discreetly stopped him in his tracks by planting a high heel in the middle of his moccasin until the blood drained from his face.“It’s kind of you, but we have already eaten.” She lied with dignity. “How about some wine?” Mr Gromkov seized a bottle of Slovak Tramín to pour my parents a glass each. “I was just telling tovariscz minister about your exceptional business project.” He motioned us to sit down. “He was interested in asking you some specific questions.”Making myself comfortable, I turned around to overlook the crowded room when I recognised the Swiss businessmen whom I had dragged to Dad’s display earlier that day. Dining by a luminous tank filled with exotic fish, they shared a table with two Slovak Bolsheviks and their wives or mistresses. I wasn’t sure which. Both young women wore glittering gowns and sported fashionably permed, bleached coiffures. Chewing like cows, they pulled fish bones from their teeth with manicured fingers.“Is there anything I can bring for the young lady?” I heard a Slovak waiter unctuously inquire behind my back. When Mr Gromkov instructed him to put my Coca-Cola on the minister’s tab, the young man made a sly grimace. I could tell that he had marked us as quislings.“Na zdorovie.” The Russians proposed a toast to our health. “And to Gorbachev.”“To the Perestroika.” We chinked our glasses.“Ochegn khorosho? Can you explain to me how this works?” Tovariscz Ivanov put on his glasses to examine the Aparatura model Dad had placed in front of him. Amazingly enough, judging by the way the Soviet minister pointed at different features and guessed their functions, he seemed to understand chemistry. It was unusual for a communist official to show the expertise matching his role. After my dad revealed the Aparatura’s retail price, claiming that he was able to guarantee the return on the client’s investment within three months from the beginning of the production, tovariscz Ivanov almost jumped from his chair.“This is by far the most interesting business proposition I’ve come across during my whole visit to the Incheba fair.” His sad face lit up. “Da? Isn’t it strange?” My mother smiled from beneath the brim of her hat. “Our economy depends on Soviet acquisitions. Half of our industrial production is made for export to your country, if not more.”“Soglasno.” The minister politely agreed, saying that he travelled to Bratislava with the intention to nurture the traditional relationships with the local producers. “Unfortunately most of your management continue to cling to the old ways of doing commerce.” He complained. “The Czechoslovak CEOs seem to think that we must automatically accept everything they propose.”“Eto pravda.” Mr Gromkov gravely confirmed that the local politicians did nothing to improve the situation. By being uncooperative, the Czechoslovak Politburo strained the relationship between our countries to a breaking point. “If they don’t start changing their attitude, we’ll have to search for business partners elsewhere.” He boomed. “After Gorbachev appointed me to my office,” Minister Ivanov told us, “I oversaw a fundamental overhaul of my department. Having unseated ineffectual administrators, I replaced them with young, feisty professionals. A number of my fellows have recently travelled to your country to negotiate new contracts, reporting that your establishment behave like feudal lords. Several of the local factory directors came across as rude and unreliable. So far, they have failed to show any interest in making things work.”“Nu da. I can’t say I’m surprised to hear this.” My father shook his head. “I hope you won’t get offended if I remind you that it were your tanks who have put those ruthless bastards to power in 1968.” He sadly laughed. “Once a swine, always a swine. The same opportunists who had sold our country to Brezhnev for a bag of silver coins claim to be patriots by criticising Gorbachev’s liberal politics.” There was intense silence while Dad concluded his monologue. “Same as rats, they’re the first to jump overboard when the mothership is going down.”I could see that Mr Gromkov and the minister’s staff found it difficult to digest my father’s candid speech. They wiggled in their chairs as if attacked by fleas, while tovariscz Ivanov wistfully swished wine in his mouth, looking unfazed.“I understand what you mean.” He finally nodded, saying that he appreciated Dad’s honesty. “We’ve made many political mistakes in the past, but you must not think of all Russians as the same. Konechno, Mikhail Gorbachev is presently doing his best to rectify everything.”I almost felt embarrassed to hear the progressive minister humbly apologise for his predecessors’ behaviour. “Of course. Russians have a lot to give to the world.” Mum rushed to express her sympathy. “We must never forget that you’ve helped to liberate Europe from Nazism and that your culture is incredibly inspiring and rich. It has undoubtedly yielded some of the world’s greatest artists, poets, writers and musicians.”“I’m currently reading War and Peace.” I eagerly joined in. “I love Tolstoy!”“Naverno.” Our hosts visibly relaxed, hearing our praise. “Let’s toast to our countries’ friendship!” Comrade Gromkov refilled the glasses.“Na nashu druzhbu.” The minister proposed.Seeing us chink glasses with our country’s occupants, the Slovak wait staff ostensibly struggled to disguise their disapproval behind a thin mask of professional indifference. I watched them surround our table with steaming plates, preparing to serve dinner.“Well, it was lovely meeting you, but I think we must drive back to Prague now.” My mother stood up to leave. “Nu da.” Mr Gromkov seemed relieved to see us go. I had a feeling that my father’s political comments put him off, although he made a show of writing down our contact number. The Russians armed themselves with knives and forks, keen to taste the local cuisine. Only tovariscz Ivanov’s face showed slight disappointment when he kissed my mother’s hand goodbye. Clicking his heels, he didn’t forget to compliment her on her Russian, claiming that it was charmingly literary.“Dovidienia.” One of the waiters rushed to open the door for us with an exaggerated eagerness. “Have a safe trip to Prague.” I heard a mocking undertone in his voice. His obsequious mask betrayed amusement.Walking over to our car, I understood the hidden irony behind the Slovak’s twofaced comment. While we were talking to the Russians, someone had let air out of our tyres. Looking around the deserted parking lot, we could see a weak light coming out of the restaurant kitchen. Two shadows in aprons smoked outside the door. One of the cooks sucked phlegm in his mouth with a loud, throaty sound, and spat out in our direction, grumbling something in Slovak about Czech turncoats.“Is this your work, lads?” Dad assumed a threatening posture, pointing to our tyres. “Congratulations to your heroic feat. Or was it some other unknown partisan from the equally unknown Slovak anti-communist resistance movement?”“Leave them alone, Jirka.” My mother grabbed him by the elbow. “It’s not worth it.”“Fuck you, man.” The two men cowardly killed their cigarettes, scurrying inside the kitchen. “Krucinál fagot!” Dad kicked the flat wheels. “What have I done to deserve this?” Rummaging in the trunk, he eventually pulled out a rusty air pump. “How dare these scumbags call me a turncoat? The biggest turncoats I’ve ever met were always Slovak.” I listened to him accuse our brotherly nation of having abandoned the Czechs, declaring a fascist state when the Germans had marched into Prague. “Twenty years after the war, they’ve betrayed us again in 1968.”“Why? I thought that Dub?ek was Slovak.” I squatted next to my father to watch him pump up the tyres, applying saliva to the valves to test them for leaking air. “Didn’t his compatriots support the Prague Spring?”“Not really.” Dad paused to catch his breath. “They’ve used our crisis to heat their political soup.” He pointed out that the Slovak deputies took advantage of the chaotic situation during the first months of the Soviet occupation to seize half the seats in the Parliament thanks to a new Federation law. “The Normalization government was mostly made of Slovaks even if we double up their population.”The restaurant door screeched open. I heard someone walk out, speaking in German. When the Swiss businessmen saw us kneeling on the ground, their lips curled up with scornful amusement. I watched them board their silver BMW as if they didn’t know us. Driving off, they sprinkled us with gravel.“That was rude.” Mum was unimpressed. “They could’ve asked if we needed help.”“Why would they?” Dad wiped his brow, putting a streak of dirt across his forehead. “Swiss don’t help anyone. They’re always neutral in every war. Besides, we don’t have any money to put in their bank, remember?”“How about the Slovaks?” I asked. “Why do they hate us?”“Who knows? They probably can’t get over the fact that we brew better beer and beat them every time in ice hockey.”“That’s a good reason to let air out of someone’s tyres.” My mother laughed.“Everything is the Russians’ fault.” I decided. “If we didn’t accept their invitation, the Slovaks would never mess with us.”212026579026200“Shush. You’re being silly, little Trumpet.” Dad threw the pump back into the trunk, brushing off his knees before he climbed inside our ?koda. “There’s an asshole in every apple.” He reminded me. “It’s stupidity that you should blame. And there are plenty of imbeciles in every nation.”THE HIGHWAY HOME UNFOLDED before our headlights like a big wheel of liquorice as we drove out of Bratislava. To fill our grumbling stomachs during the long journey to Prague, Mum pulled out a sack with peeled carrots from her purse and we crunched them for dinner.“What did you think of Minister Ivanov, Jirka?” I heard her ask Dad. “It looks like Gorbachev surrounds himself with competent people.”“Yeah. He gave me the impression of being a good guy.” Dad boomed, munching a carrot. “I’m happy I had a chance to speak to the Russians even if I doubt that we’ll do business with them.” He switched on the long-distance lights. “As much as they seem devoted to the idea of reforming the Soviet industry, I don’t think they can afford to undertake any serious investments.”Our ?koda was so noisy inside, I had to wedge my head between the front seats to overhear my parents’ conversation. “Do you know what has crossed my mind when the minister asked me to toast the Perestroika?” I listened to Dad recollections of having shared the table with a bunch of Russians, twenty years before. “That was in Sophia.” He laughed, saying that the Soviet military intelligence were trying to recruit him as an agent back then. “Today was like a flashback.”I held my breath, processing the information. “Is this when you’ve met with the Devil?” I bellowed in his ear. “Remember? You promised to tell me about it when I was older and I’m much older now.” “Stop blowing your trumpet. I’m not deaf.” My father growled. “What I’m about to divulge to you is classified information. Are you sure you can keep it to yourself?”“Trust me. I won’t tell anyone.”“Not even your Civic Science teacher?” My mother teased me.“I swear. I’ll be silent like a grave!” I made the sign of the cross to attest my loyalty.“Alright then.” Dad began, reminding me that he was the rising star of the Czech Intelligence Service in the sixties. “I was an intelligent, ambitious lad, burning to win my spurs. I was a perfect catch, which is why the Bulgarian contra-espionage and the Soviet military intelligence, GRU, conspired to entice me into their spider web during my first journey to Sophia.”Intelligence services weren’t supposed to work against each other within the Socialist Block, my father explained. It took him a couple of days to realise what was going on. Planning the invasion, they Soviets were looking for allies amongst the Prague Spring supporters. They were fishing for people in key positions, such as Dad, who would, metaphorically speaking, unlatch the town gates to them.“They wanted to use you as their Trojan horse?” I remembered the Greek myths.“Let’s say, I was a highly prospective horse to bet on.” My father nodded. “Traitors amongst the dissenters are the key to supressing every rebellion.” He shifted the gears to overtake a fleet of trucks.The first days following Dad’s arrival to Sophia, he grinned, his Bulgarian colleagues treated him like a king. Driving him around town in a black Mercedes, they occasionally crossed paths with a group of high-ranking GRU spies, who visited the same sites as if by coincidence. “I remember the Russians’ uniforms. They were black, purple and green. Each of the officers displayed an impressive collection of medals pinned to his chest.”“How come the spies wore uniforms?” I frowned. “I thought that secret police were supposed to look inconspicuous.” “These guys were so high up in the hierarchy, they didn’t need to bother hiding their identity.” I could see the reflection of my father’s smile in the rear view mirror.“I see.” I swallowed. “How did they approach you?”“I was dining at the hotel restaurant one evening when the waiter, presumably a spy himself, delivered to me a glass of expensive scotch with a personal message from the Russians.” Dad remembered. “The GRU commander invited me to join his table in the private salon.”I pictured my father as in a James Bond movie. Sipping the scotch, he would calmly suck on his cigarette, then crush it in the ashtray before heading to the ‘viper’s den.’“I knew nothing about Brezhnev’s plans to invade our country, but I still had a bad feeling.” He flipped on the indicator to move back into the right lane. “My gut instinct informed me that I was in big trouble as I crossed the restaurant floor.”“Why didn’t you refuse the invitation?”“How could I have as a young lieutenant from an insignificant European intelligence service? Don’t forget that I was dealing with the commander of the world’s second largest secret organisation.” Dad followed with the description of the atmosphere in the private salon. The soundproof suite was tastefully illuminated. The Russians at the table had harsh, weather-beaten faces of seasoned warriors. The most senior of the officials was a major general. There were half a dozen of GRU spies. The chief of the Bulgarian counter-intelligence was also present.“Sadis.” Dad imitated the general’s voice. “He ordered me to take a seat. One of the Russians poured me a glass of French cognac and proposed to drink to our countries’ friendship!”“This is exactly what the minister said to you tonight!” I cried. “That’s like a déjà vu.” Shivers ran across my back.“I’ve read it somewhere that time moves in a spiral.” My father rolled down his window to light a Sparta. “Our future seems to depend on our understanding of the past. Going over and over the same patterns, we learn to distinguish the differences between seemingly identical experiences.”“What’s the difference between now and back then?” I wondered. “Did you refuse to drink with the Russians?”“No. That would have been suicide.”“Why?” I was puzzled.My mother turned around to ruffle my hair.“You must understand that the rules of the game in adult life are rigid, shaped by the centuries of collective struggle for survival, Trumpet.” She observed. According to the Russian custom, it was a mortal offence to refuse a toast, similar to throwing a glove in a man’s face. “That’s true.” I remembered War and Peace. “In Tolstoy’s days, Dad would have been asked out to a duel. “Oh yes. I would have signed my death certificate if I didn’t empty my glass.” Dad continued. “Besides, I didn’t see anything wrong about drinking to our friendship. The problem was that the GRU officials wouldn’t leave it there. Pouring one cognac after another, they started to propose toasts that I was finding difficult to swallow.”“Like what?”“At some point, when the Russians thought that I was becoming drunk,” I saw Dad scratch his hair, “the general asked me to drink to the resignation of the Prague Spring government.”“Did you?” I bit my lips.“Of course not?” He resolutely slammed the steering wheel. “Obviously, I became offended. I’ve asked the old guy what made him think that I would raise a glass against Dub?ek. Did he take me for a traitor?” Before the general had time to get offended, Dad reformulated his toast. “I proposed to drink to our countries’ mutual respect. Good friends should work together, not against each other.” Daringly following his proposal with a diplomatic speech, my father explained to the Soviet officials that the Warsaw Pact should grant our country freedom to choose our individual path to Socialism.“This was of course an unspeakable impertinence, but I was young and the hand of destiny was sitting heavily on my shoulder.”It started to rain. I could see that Dad was beginning to feel exhausted by talking and driving at the same time.“Did the Russians accept your toast?”“They eventually did.” He grinned. “Judging by the way the general’s eyes looked bloodshot after he downed his cognac, I did a perfect job of pissing him off. It probably didn’t happen very often that someone as young and unimportant would twist the GRU commander’s arm.”Fat raindrops began to hammer the front window screen.“Weren’t you afraid?” I watched the wipers clear out the blurred view, rhythmically screeching. “He could have sent you to the Gulag.”“Luckily, they couldn’t simply drag Dad from the table and throw him in jail.” Mum corrected my na?ve viewpoint. “He was visiting Bulgaria as an official guest of the State, protected by a diplomatic passport.” She reminded me. “It was more about the future consequences, which you know were deadly serious.”It was raining hard by then. I could see streams of water pouring across the highway. Our windows covered in fog and Dad had to concentrate on driving. I leaned back, listening to the painful moaning of our engine. Questions whirled through my mind as I stared into the tempestuous night. When the heavy downpour finally eased up, my father picked up the story where he had left it.The Russians had barely finished drinking, when the chief of the Bulgarian counter-intelligence jumped up like a Devil from a toy box. Dad laughed, describing the stumpy fellow with a red nose and short legs in high leather boots. “Drawing his hand to the gun holster as if to shoot me, he yelled that Prague was the nest of counter-revolution.” The Bulgarian spy apparently referred to Dub?ek’s Socialism with a Human Face as a dangerous heresy. Speaking in anger, he also let it slip that the Soviets were going to do everyone a favour by wiping the Prague Spring reformists out of our government.“This is when I realised that the Russians were planning a military intervention.” My father winced. “Having decided to rewrite our history, they’ve merely offered me to play an important role in their script by asking me to toast to the resignation of the reformist government.” He heaved a sigh. “In a way, I felt flattered even if I understood that by subduing myself to their will, I would have compromised everything I stood for.”I wasn’t sure if Dad’s yellow eyes turned misty or they only reflected the mist on the window when he remembered how he had lowered his cognac on the table, distancing himself from the conspiracy. He silenced the Bulgarian spy by reminding him that the Czechoslovaks had never fought against the Red Army alongside the Germans as his compatriots did.“I called him a hypocrite. He didn’t have the moral right to call my country’s leaders traitors.” Dad rumbled. “For a second, it looked like he was going to shoot me.” He chuckled, imitating the drunken Bulgarian as he grotesquely threw his hands in the air, screaming Ya Chekist! Ya Chekist!“What does that mean?” I smiled.“Cheka was a Soviet version of Gestapo after the Great October revolution in 1917.” Mum lectured me. “If the Bulgarian claimed that he was a Chekist, it means that he had probably killed many people in his lifetime. On one side or the other.”“He had it written on his face that he was a murderer.” My father’s voice filled with distaste. “He was the sort of thug who would suck up to anyone who’d give him the permission to kill people.”I cringed at the thought of the Bulgarian officer pacing along the trenches dug by the victims he was about to execute. Plop, plop, plop, plop. He would dutifully put bullets through their heads like staples.“The wounded goose cries the loudest.” Dad recalled another popular saying. “It’s nothing new. The worst thing about villains is that they always accuse others of having committed their crimes. A snitch is the first to call others snitches and thieves always cry catch the thief!”A cluster of concrete blocks wrapped in an unhealthy scarlet haze emerged from the darkness before us. I could see a peeling road sign point to Brno, the capital of South Moravia. We had another two hours to go. Lighting another cigarette, Dad opened the window. Cool, humid breeze entered the car.“What did the Russians say to you after this?” My skin covered in goose bumps.“They said nothing.” I heard him exhale.Seeing the Bulgarian officer stomp off in rage, the commander of the GRU stoically finished his cognac before he stood up and left with his entourage. Only two Russians remained sitting at the table with my father. He shivered, flipping the ashes out of the window. “There was no need for words, no space for lies.” The Russians respected Dad’s decision to stay true to himself at the price of his life. Judging by their age, he said, they would have both fought in World War II. “Neither of them was a stranger to death. They clearly understood that to me, being dishonest was the same thing as being dead.”“So why did they expect you to lie?” I fixedly observed our headlights gobble up the broken line in the middle of the road.“Who knows?” Dad snorted. “It’s irrelevant what the Devil offers you in exchange for your immortal identity. As long as you keep your soul, he esteems you. If you give in to temptation, however, you become a nameless entity to him.” My father cast a look in the rear-view mirror to see if I followed his thoughts. “The rule is quite simple. When you surrender your integrity, the game is over. You might preserve your physical body, but become worthless. Whether you get wealthy, successful, admired or feared, your heart remains forever empty. After you lose your self-respect, your love goes out like a flame, which you can never reignite.”“Are you saying that love and soul are related?” I was intrigued.“A soul needs to breathe love to feel alive like a flame feeding on oxygen.” I saw Dad reach out to squeeze my mother’s hand. “Only a pure heart can become a shrine to your soul.” He growled. “I can see my soul reflected in Mum’s eyes. This is why I love her so much.” I had the impression of hearing his voice tremble. “I’d prefer to die than see her leave me. And I knew she wouldn’t stay with me for a second if she suspected that I had betrayed my principles. Am I wrong, Alice?”“No.” My mother nodded. “I can’t stand assholes.”“So while, like every young man, I had the ambition to become powerful and lavish expensive gifts on my beloved wife, I knew that she would hate me for having paid for our luxury with Judas’ silver coins.”“Is it true?” I turned to Mum who leaned over to stroke my cheek.“All the riches we need are inside us.” She said. “Everything else is useless glitter.”The sky eventually cleared of the clouds and I could see stars glimmering above the hilltops. Silhouettes of trees and churches towered on the dark horizon. I felt wealthy, looking at the poor landscape before me, which seemed so gentle and peaceful when its inhabitants were sound asleep.“Anyway, to finish my story.” Dad stirred in his seat to stretch his sore back. “The Russians who stayed with me at the table finished the bottle and walked me to the hotel elevator. After the cabin doors closed, we went up together in silence. They got out on a floor below me. Before they left, they patted me firmly on the back. The older of them flashed me an encouraging smile.”“Why?”“Perhaps he had a son my age or he remembered himself when he was young.” Dad shrugged, describing the moment of solitude after the Russians’ exit. While the elevator moved upwards, he felt as if he were falling through an imaginary trapdoor that opened beneath his feet. “There are some propositions in life which are difficult to refuse.” He admitted. “I could have secured a great career by drinking cognac and keeping my mouth shut, becoming a Minister of Interior or his deputy at the least.” My father’s mind boiled with a million doubts as he tossed and turned in bed that night, he said, expecting a professional assassin to turn the door handle in his room.For the rest of Dad’s visit to the Bulgarian capital, the local counter-intelligence never took their eyes off him.“The change of my hosts’ attitude was immediate.” I heard him laugh. “The black Mercedes was gone the next morning. Another driver picked me up from the hotel in a corroded Lada.” Luckily, my father enjoyed the protection of the young Bulgarian officers from the Western division who sympathised with the Prague Spring, he concluded. Their chief, especially warmed up to him. He went so far as to risk compromising his position to safeguard my dad from Comrade Chekist’s wrath.“When I flew back to Prague, I gave Grigori my spy camera as an expression of my gratitude.” I heard my father’s voice from a great distance. “It was only thanks to his friendship that I stayed alive after I had returned to Sophia the second time . . .”I don’t recall drifting off to sleep. When I regained consciousness, we were at home. “Good night, Trumpet.” Dad carried me up to my room and tucked me up in bed, planting an affectionate kiss on my cheek. “Nighty night, Dad.” I sleepily whispered. “I love you.”center63839600It was great to know that I could trust him and that he would never renounce on his principles, regardless of how much he had to suffer for staying true to himself. I relied on him to protect my soul from the Devil who silently lurked at the back of my mind.AN OLD PROVERB CLAIMS that the Devil never sleeps. He is busy like a spider, spinning a web of endless contradictions. I was quite wrong to assume that my father wouldn’t hear back from Mr Gromkov. Shortly after we returned from Slovakia, Dad received a phone call from the Office of Czechoslovak-Soviet Friendship. The booming commissionaire informed him that a group of young factory directors were flying from Moscow to Prague the next morning. Minister Ivanov had apparently suggested that my father might be interested in showing the Perestroika Russians around our capital, Mr Gromkov said. “Does the Minister want me to become a bear leader?” Dad gasped with indignation, employing the colloquial term for a Russian-speaking tour guide. A bear leader was one of the most unpopular jobs in our country at the time.“I pochemu niet?” Mr Gromkov roared with laughter. “You walk the Soviet delegation across the Charles Bridge to Old Town Square. What harm does that do to you?”To stimulate Dad’s interest, he enthusiastically described the Soviet visitors as huge animals, hinting at the fact that they wielded a lot of power back home. “If I were you, I would jump at this unique opportunity to make business contacts.” The commissionaire massaged Dad into submission.Judging by how my father’s eyes gleamed when he hung up, his hunting instinct was aroused. He decided to follow the trail.“Why do you want to do business with Russians?” I was upset. “I thought you were supposed to be a hero not a traitor! Haven’t you always criticised the locals who bought cheap motor oil from the Red Army?”“I beg your pardon!” My dad growled. “I’m not trading in stolen goods on the black market, but looking for allies who fight for the same important cause as I do, be they American, Russian or Chinese.”Dad insisted on reminding me that nationality didn’t determine individual character. Russians weren’t our enemies, he declared, but the wicked people who wielded power in Russia. “We can’t just wait for justice or dream about future freedom. Nothing will ever change unless we’re prepared to put our shoulder to the wheel.”Regaining his calm, he leaned in his armchair to light a Sparta. “The Perestroika is a lot like the Prague Spring.” He said. “And if today’s Kremlin represents what Prague Castle has stood for twenty years ago, if Gorbachev is the new Dub?ek, despite my aversion to everything Soviet, it’s my duty to help the Perestroika Russians win their battle against the conservative, warmongering wing.”“But Daddy, how do you know that Gorbachev won’t betray his ideas the same way Dub?ek did?”“Good question.” I watched Dad scratch his scalp with a beer opener. “I’ve only seen him on television, but my gut feeling tells me that he’s rock solid.” He said. “Unless the Yankees betray him, he’s going to hold.”Seeing that his motives were pure, I decided to forgive Dad for accepting the role of a bear leader, although I was far from being convinced that he was doing the right thing by mingling with Russians. Mum was also sceptical and attempted to dissuade him, but he refused to listen to her rational arguments. The following morning, he drove off to the airport. Contrary to his claim that would be back for lunch, we didn’t see him until the afternoon. Judging by how our ?koda’s undercarriage nearly scraped the road when he returned, the three bears inside the car were exceptionally big.“Piotr, Tamaz and Vladimir aren’t only heavy weights. They’re politically tame and friendly.” My father joked on introducing the big Russian men to us, saying that we had nothing to fear from them. “They’re on our side.” He demonstrated his statement by slapping the tallest factory director across his back.It looked like he had already toasted friendship with his bears while he showed them around Prague. They intimately referred to him as Jirka and slapped his back in return, roaring with hearty laughter. I watched them walk inside our garage to check out the Aparatura, which was awaiting its transport to the Austerlitz Cooperative.“What a great piece of work!” The Russians boomed, inspecting the chemical module. “Molodecz!” They approvingly tapped Dad on the shoulder. “Well done, Jirka. Have you assembled this prototype all by yourself?” The loudness of the bears’ growling attracted Mr ?imek. I could see him run down the garden steps with his rake, shaking his head with indignation when he heard our guests speaking Russian. “Niet. Niet. What you see here is a product of tightly coordinated team work by local scientists.” Dad cautiously shut the garage gate. “It’s a long story.”Handing each of the Russian directors a test tube with homemade gin, he gave them a vivid account of his encounter with Dr Steinein and the reasons behind his decision to become an entrepreneur.“Unless I work for myself, I can’t keep an honest job in this country.” Dad boldly admitted that his negative attitude to the Soviet invasion had earned him the status of a political outcast. “Being a patriot never pays off.”“That’s so wrong.” The chief of a major chemical plant in Moscow, Vladimir, looked infuriated. “Single-minded people like you are the driving engine of every society.” He declared. “I believe that the goal of the Perestroika is to change this situation.” “Naverno.” His colleague from Saint Petersburg echoed his view. “Na nashu druzhbu.” Tamaz originated from Georgia, a Soviet republic located on the southern side of Caucasus. “Let’s drink to the good changes to come.” He raised his test tube, gingerly sniffing my mother’s original blend. “What’s this brand called? It’s quite remarkable.”For the rest of the day, Mum and I were busy in the kitchen, cooking bear food while Dad forged friendship with the Perestroika Russians in our living room. After midnight, none of the men seemed to be able to walk straight. We had to accommodate the Soviet directors in our guest room. Vladimir with Piotr somehow squeezed on the couch and chunky Tamaz slept on the floor. The next morning after breakfast, before my father escorted his Russian friends back to a hotel in Prague, they promised to purchase the Aparatura, inviting us to the USSR.If time moves in a spiral, the months following the Russians’ visit had passed in a whirlwind. Our phone became a hotline between Prague and Moscow and our mailbox overflowed with envelops featuring Russian stamps. The local postwoman spread gossip around town that my father was involved with the KGB. Those of our neighbours, who never greeted us before, began to say hello, and the others who used to say it, suddenly stopped. Eventually, the Austerlitz Cooperative had sent a truck to pick the Aparatura from our garage. I was amazed to see Dad wistfully smile like a poker player about to lose his hand, when he handed over the cardboard boxes with the disjointed pieces of his ‘baby’ to Comrade Bogus.“Do you remember The Sting?” He was always quick to pick a reference to American cinematography. We were standing outside the garage, watching the loaded truck bump down our street in a cloud of dust. “If the Bolsheviks think that they’ve finished me off, they’re in for a big surprise.” Dad rubbed his hands as if he had won a prize instead of suffering a devastating loss. “The comrades won’t know what hit them when I’ll build a successful business by exporting Aparaturas to the Soviet Union.”2226116189745000He said he expected Gorbachev’s cabinet to increase economic pressure to force the Czechoslovak Bolsheviks into adopting the Perestroika policies. The fact that the Soviet directors were willing to do business with a former contra-revolutionary while the local management was unable to negotiate new contracts in the USSR was a clear sign that heavenly justice was at work, my father concluded. His mission was to help Mikhail Gorbachev deliver a fatal blow to the corrupted political system, incorrectly tagged as Communism. Positioning himself as the pioneer of Capitalism in Eastern Europe, Dad presumably believed that he was a tool in the hands of God. I could see that the spirit of political Messianism possessed him. It was inevitable that his faith in the Perestroika was going to take over our lives.WE TOOK A PLANE to Moscow on August 16th, two decades after the KGB had tampered with Dad’s car brakes in Sophia, plotting his assassination. I had never flown before. As we taxied to the runway, my initial excitement slowly gave way to mounting anxiety. A Russian flight attendant reassured the passengers that Aeroflot cared about our safety. She showed us how to clip our safety belts and pull the cords on the inflatable lifejackets. Hearing the engines thunder, I started to hyperventilate. Grey clouds on the Eastern sky threatened rain. Eventually, the plane turned left and stopped with a jolt, reaching the point of no return.I squeezed my mother’s hand and closed my eyes.“My little God.” I whispered. “Thou who art in heaven, help us take off in the right direction. Please, don’t let us fall or hit a mountain. Give us enough fuel to reach our destination and protect us from all technical malfunctions. Amen.”The aircraft ominously shuddered as the pilot released the brakes. We accelerated, speeding down the runway. My legs became extremely heavy and my seat sucked me in.“Don’t worry, Trumpet.” Dad reassuringly growled in my ear. “This is a safe aircraft designed in the United States before the KGB stole the McDonnell Douglas drawings to build the TU 154.”“What?” I gasped. “Are we flying on a stolen plane?”“Well. The Russians have actually rewarded Mirek Reichert with a golden watch for overseeing this operation.” I heard my father laugh, saying that Mr Reichert’s agents in California had apparently rolled up the technical documents for the DC 10 into a Persian carpet and delivered it to the celebrity spy’s apartment in Washington D.C. in a generic moving van.“Je?i?marja!” I made the sign of the cross. “Forgive us for our sins.”Colours and shapes behind the window melted into a blur after the aircraft angled upwards. For a split second, it almost looked as if our tail was about to scrape the tarmac. I drew a deep breath and made myself the lightest possible while the gravitational force stretched out an invisible umbilical cord between my body and mother Earth. After it snapped, I was airborne.A warm sensation flooded my lungs. It was as if I had left my body behind. I felt weightless, wondering if this is how souls felt after death. Below me, even the biggest buildings shrank to the size of matchboxes. A gentle landscape unwrapped in colourful patches, reminding me of a beggar’s coat. I recognised the blue ribbon of our local river running around the soft collar of the Brdy hills. The TV tower painted in red and white stripes jutted out of the woods like a pin. Villages scattered in the valley looked similar to buttons. I stretched out my neck to see my hometown when the plane entered the clouds, heading towards the polished sky.“Welcome to heaven.” I heard a bell clink.As soon as the ‘No Smoking’ sign overhead went off, my dad began to fumble in his pocket, pulling out a pack of Spartas.“Did I tell you that I went to see Father Eugene about our journey?” I turned to my mother. “I wanted to know if we weren’t committing a sin by going to Russia.”“Really?” Her blue eyes widened with interest. “What did he tell you?” I saw her lips twitch in a polite expression of amusement.“The same thing as Dad.” I shrugged. “He’s also of the opinion that good and evil frequently change sides.” The example father Eugene gave me was that Jesus was born a Jew during the Roman occupation of Judea. After Pontius Pilate had crucified him, the Jewish religion ended up taking over the Roman Empire and later, the whole of Europe. And today, Jesus has his church in Rome. “That’s a valuable point.” My mother nodded. “Except that when Europeans became Christians, they started to kill Jews in Jesus’ name.” “Yeah, I guess.” My shoulders slumped.Human history was so full of paradoxes.The sea of clouds parted, revealing a significantly less patchy fabric of Ukrainian countryside below. Heavy green, brown and golden brushstrokes entwined in beautiful patterns.“You’d never believe that this soil is soaked in blood.” Dad curiously looked down, pulling on his Sparta. “How many armies have trampled this fertile ground? How many people have starved to death in those rich fields, not to mention the contamination in Chernobyl?” He shook his head.As the sun shone overhead, the lakes strewn across the flat landscape cast blinding reflections like pieces of shattered glass. It occurred to me that some powerful oriental goddess might have accidentally broken her mirror above the Ukrainian fields, bringing misfortune to this country.Aeroflot served us fish for lunch and I was surprised that it tasted good. After the airhostess collected our trays, the plane angled down. I heard the bells chime. The signs above our seats gleamed red. As we soared towards a forest of smoking chimneys and a mountainside of concrete blocks, I lost my hearing. The plane shuddered, releasing its undercarriage. I clawed the upholstery of my seat until our wheels bumped against the airstrip. When the pilot abruptly slowed down and turned off the runway, the relieved passengers clapped their hands.“Welcome to Moscow.” A female voice agreeably echoed from the inbuilt speakers. “Bolshoye sposiba for flying with Aeroflot.”Sheremetyevo was a modern airport, featuring mobile gangways, which the Prague Airport didn’t have at the time. My father collected his briefcase from the storage space overhead and charged ahead of us to the immigration booth. Mum and I didn’t bother competing with the impatient passengers clogging the aisle. I was the last to leave the airplane. Unable to stop thinking about the KGB, I half expected to see secret agents in leather coats waiting for us by the exit.The towering customs officer inside the immigration booth reminded me of Leonid Brezhnev. I watched him seize our passports and knit his furry eyebrows with effort to decipher the Latin alphabet. “Where are you going to stay in Moscow?” He stiffly inquired. “Are you planning on visiting any other towns?’“Our friends booked us a room in a hotel. We’ll fly to St. Petersburg on Friday.” My father replied. “Kuda?” The Russian’s eyebrows stood on end as if he was about to point a gun at us, ordering my dad to march all the way to Siberia. “Where did you say that you intend to travel?” He groaned. “My husband meant to say Leningrad.” My mother rushed to correct Dad’s mistake. “Excuse us, tovariscz. It’s sometimes difficult for us foreigners to keep up with so many historical changes in your country.”The burly man narrowed his eyes, studying her straw hat. “Poniatno.” He unexpectedly smiled before he carefully chose a stamp from a set of a dozen as if this was the favourite part of his customary ritual. Breathing on it warmly, he planted it in our passports. “Welcome to the USSR.” He gave Mum a military salute and waved us through the gate.“What’s the date on your stamp, Dad?” I recalled a notorious propaganda slogan that described the Soviet Union as the country where tomorrow was actually yesterday. “If tomorrow is already over in Moscow,” I joked, “today must be August 18th.”“I see what you mean.” My father laughed. “One of the few positive changes that the communists have brought to Russia was to align the orthodox calendar with the rest of Europe.” I watched him reset his watch. “The modern Muscovites are running two hours ahead of Central Europeans instead of being a couple of weeks behind. But in terms of progress they’re a hundred years behind the apes.”center16874300 ................
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